Crackles
by celadon
Summary: When it comes to criminals, Don's known triumph in firefights, fist fights, and battles of wits. But in the battle of man against microbe, he just never stood a chance. Many, many thanks to everybody reading along!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This spring I caught pneumonia, and despite a lot of past experience with bronchitis and sinus infections, it was still about the nastiest, most aggravating thing I've ever had. It's sheer spitefulness that made me take it out on somebody else. In the chaos that was this summer, I tried an experiment of writing a hundred words for a hundred days to keep my hand in. This little piece suited that goal well because it could be put together in small pieces, without a lot of concentration. Despite the subject matter, it's more silly than serious, more lighthearted than angsty, more good fun than anything else, and should post over a short period. No, really - I mean it this time. It's dedicated to all those people who, like me and Don, are just darned sure they can take care of things on their own. Even when they can't. _

**Crackles**

_A Sucker Bet_

"Name?"

"Eppes. Don."

"Do you have your insurance card, Mr. Eppes?"

"Yeah…" Don dug his insurance card out of his wallet and pushed it through the small window. A form was pushed back in his direction.

"Can you fill that out for me, please? And that will be twenty dollars for your co-pay."

Don obediently filled out the personal information and signed his name over the liability waiver, returning it with a crumpled twenty dollar bill on top.

"Thank you, Mr. Eppes. And what seems to be the problem this evening?"

"Um - " Don felt the color rise in his cheeks. "A - cough. Came on kind of fast." He stammered a little. "It's - probably nothing." I lost a bet, he finished silently. It seemed ridiculous to be standing here in Urgent Care for anything less than a gunshot wound.

"You can have a seat over there, Mr. Eppes. We take you on a first come, first served basis, but in the event of an emergency, you may have to wait longer." He nodded dully. "You can hang your coat up over there, if you like."

Don hunkered deeper into his jacket. They were going to have to crank up the heat in here if they wanted him to part with his jacket. He found a seat in the battered row of chairs between a large woman in a fleece coat and a young woman jiggling a baby, and prepared to wait.

He shouldn't be here at all. Talk about a waste of time. Taking up precious time that should be spent on _real_ sick people. He crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his biceps to dispel the chill. His own fault - it had been a sucker bet, and he had fallen for it. Just went to show that he was a little off his game.

"Eppes?"

He looked up in surprise to see a nurse standing in the doorway, eyes scanning the room. He stumbled to his feet.

Faster than he expected. _Of course, that's what they did - shuffled you off to the examination room to wait, where there weren't even any magazines to keep you company_.

He followed the nurse down a sterile corridor and into a small examination room.

"Take off your jacket and get up on the table," she instructed briskly.

Reluctantly, he put his jacket aside and boosted himself onto the table.

"So, what seems to be the problem today, Mr. Eppes?"

Didn't he just tell somebody that? Didn't these people ever talk to each other?

"Just a cough. Probably nothing." _And if I'd thought faster, I wouldn't be here right now, wasting your time. _

"Uh-huh." The nurse stuck a thermometer under his tongue and pressed her fingers against his pulse. When the thermometer beeped, she made no comment but scrawled something on a form and pushed up his sleeve to make room for a blood pressure cuff. "Do you smoke, Mr. Eppes?" He shook his head. "Chewing tobacco?"

He shook his head again. "Promised my mom I never would. It was pretty popular among ball players - I chewed gum instead." _Yeah, babble on Eppes - maybe you do need a doctor._

She checked the blood pressure gauge and made a few more notes. "And when did your cough start?"

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. There might have been a tickle a week ago, then overnight it had seemed to go from nothing to…well…something. "Couple days, I guess. It was bad yesterday. Sounded - I don't know - funny. Actually seems better today - probably on the mend."

"Mm hm." The nurse fingered his tee shirt. "The doctor can listen to your chest through that, so I won't make you change. Someone should be with you soon, but in the event of something more urgent, we do use triage procedures, so you may have to wait."

Don nodded and watched the door close behind her. As soon as it did, he hopped off the table and retrieved his jacket, wrapping it around himself. He didn't mind waiting, but he sure wasn't going to freeze while he did. He swung his legs restlessly as the minutes ticked by, noticed there was a pillow on the examining table. Actually looked kind of comfortable.

He stretched out on the table, coughed, and rolled onto his side. He had already figured out that helped slow down the coughing. They could wake him up when they were ready for him. And then they could just send him on his way.

Don snapped up abruptly at the sound of the door opening. A glance at the clock showed him that he'd been asleep for over an hour. He rubbed a hand over his hair, trying to look alert, as a Latino man in a white coat entered. His name tag read "Rodriguez".

"Mr. Eppes," he said pleasantly. "What seems to be the problem this evening?"

Don stared at him. _Come on, somebody must have told somebody something? Shared information?_ "Cough," he said after a pause. "Probably nothing, I just - " Well, it was too embarrassing to explain.

Dr. Rodriguez saved him the trouble by pulling out a speculum and sticking it in his ear, then his nose. "Open?"

Don obediently opened his mouth and let him shine the small light down his throat. The doctor reached for his stethoscope and placed it over his right chest.

"Take a deep breath and let it out."

Don took a deep breath and coughed.

The doctor moved the stethoscope to his back. "Again?"

Don tried again, had to pause to cough. He felt a little embarrassed, but the doctor made no comment, just shifted the stethoscope.

"Again?"

Don tried again, waited as the doctor tapped on his back, then went over to the counter and scrawled something on a form. _Prescription, probably_. He drew a relieved breath that turned into another cough.

The doctor handed him the paper. "Take that down the hall to x-ray. Give them the small form, return here with the large form when they're done."

Don stared at the form, sure he'd heard wrong. "Huh?" he said blankly.

"You need a chest x-ray," the doctor repeated. "You have crackles in your lungs."

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Wow. Thank you for the warm welcome. I really appreciate it, especially when this is just a lighthearted little character piece. And I promise you will find out about the bet. But not just yet._

_Special thanks to everybody who sent condolences on my pneumonia. It was months ago, and I've been five months illness free - much more my usual style. I've been picking away at this one off and on ever since._

**Chapter 2**

_Sick is a Four Letter Word_

_Crackles. _

Don followed the signs to the one that said "X-Ray" and stopped at the reception desk.

_What the heck are crackles?_

"You're here for an x-ray?"

Don blinked at the receptionist and peeled the small sheet of paper free and handed it to her. _So they were really serious about this. _"I guess so." _Funny to get an x-ray for anything less than a broken limb._

"Can you sign here, please?"

_Sheesh. It's like buying a house. _He signed obediently and pushed the paper back.

"Follow that corridor and a technician will help you."

_More corridors. How big was this place? It was like a labyrinth. _Don followed another hallway until he saw a woman in a white coat standing in front of a machine.

She looked up at him and smiled. "You're here for a chest x-ray?"

_Apparently. _"Guess so," he shrugged.

She handed him a gown and pointed across the hall. "Take off your shirt and get into this. Opening in the back. Then come back and stand in front of that panel, chest to the panel."

_Great. Then we can get this all over with and I can go home. _He reluctantly let go of his jacket again, then his tee shirt, and slid his arms into the hospital gown with a shudder. _Hate these things. They should invent a thermal one._

He returned to the room across the hall and obediently stood with his chest against the panel.

"Arms at sides," the technician intoned. "Now breathe deep."

He took a deep breath and coughed violently, shoulders shaking.

"Whoa, whoa - need to do that one again. Hold still if you can…"

_Yeah, like anybody does that on purpose. _He took a deep breath and fought the tickle in his chest.

"Good, good - turn to the side…"

He choked down a laugh. _Kind of like having a mug shot taken. _

"Arms over your head this time…"

_Simon says…_

"Another deep breath…"

He did better at suppressing the cough this time.

"And…you're done. Take the long sheet back to the front desk. If there's a line, show them your sheet so they know you're returning from x-ray."

_Yeah, yeah, yeah…and people think the FBI is steeped in bureaucracy. _

At least it was over.The doctor would send him on his way, maybe with a prescription, and he could prove that he had upheld his end of the bet.

There was no line at the Urgent Care window, and a glance at the clock showed him that it had gotten late. A different nurse led him back to the original examination room and he slipped back into his jacket to ward off the prevailing chill. _They should really keep this place warmer. There are sick people here._

Dr. Rodriguez returned almost immediately with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He nodded to him. "Do you have trouble with any antibiotics?"

Don wrinkled his forehead. "Antibiotics? Not that I know of."

"I'll write you a prescription for azithromycin. And a codeine cough syrup."

Don blinked. "Okay. Um - I have a twelve hour drill scheduled for tomorrow. It's not physical, just procedural, but - I mean, that's not a problem, is it?"

Dr. Rodriguez raised his brows. "I wouldn't advise it." He pulled a couple of slips of paper from his prescription pad and thrust them at him. "I'd say bed rest and fluids. If you stick with that all weekend, you might be able to go to work on Monday. What is it you do?"

Don swallowed, suddenly bewildered. "I'm - an FBI Agent. Field Agent."

"Oh." The doctor nodded. "Then you could be ready for _desk_ work on Monday. Eight hour day - or less. Not more."

_Eight hour day? What the hell was that? _"Um? I don't get it. What - ?"

Dr. Rodriguez gestured to the prescriptions. "You have pneumonia."

000

_Pneumonia. _Don shifted his packages to his left arm and wrestled the key into the lock, nudging the door inward with knee and foot. _FBI Agents got shot, sure, battered, blown up, even stabbed sometimes, but they didn't get __sick. _He kicked the door closed behind him and dumped his bags on the coffee table.

Pneumonia was an illness for old people in hospitals and babies with underdeveloped lungs - not for healthy, vigorous men in their thirties. When he'd asked the doctor how he could have contracted it, though, he'd shrugged and told him he'd probably picked it up from somebody. He ran through a typical week in his mind, the number of people he came in contact with - at the bureau, crime scenes, doing interviews, the gym, even picking through garbage for evidence - always with gloves, of course, but still…it was a lot of contact with a lot of strangers. He started to slide out of his jacket, but paused to fuss with the thermostat first. _Cold in here, too. The rainy season could cut right through you. _

He sat down on the couch to go through his bags. Two six packs of water. One jumbo box of tissues. One bottle of cheratussin - whatever that was. One gallon of orange juice, one package with five days worth of azithromycin. He was supposed to take the first dose of that right away.

He pulled one of the waters free of the six pack and unscrewed the top and took a swallow. Funny how they ordered you to stay hydrated, then they left you sitting around the medical facility for hours without a drop of water in sight. He read the packaging around the azithromycin - take two the first day - and fumbled with the blister packs. The small pink pills stayed tidily enclosed. He glared at them, wondering in exasperation if using his gun to shoot them out would do too much damage. Instead, he crossed to the kitchen and pulled a butcher knife out of the knife block, brought it down on the cardboard with a resounding thwack. The cardboard separated and two pills rolled free. He smiled with satisfaction and threw them back, following them with a swallow of water. He needed to call in and let them know he wouldn't be there tomorrow. A real bummer, that, but it was a day of procedural drills for team leaders, so none of his team needed to know that he was - slightly indisposed - until Monday. And by then he expected to be at work again. The doctor had seemed to think that wouldn't be a problem as long as he followed the rules rigorously this weekend, and he intended to.

His eye caught the phone mounted on the kitchen wall and he hesitated. He could call Dad and Charlie - do his recovering at the old house, where there would be somebody to wait on him…he gave a shudder that didn't owe everything to the chill under his skin. _Or maybe not. _If he stayed here, he could have peace and quiet, fall asleep in front of the television, call for take out when he needed food, and avoid the inevitable questions about when he got this? How he got this? And did he really think it was a good idea to go to work on Monday?

He pulled his tee shirt, surprisingly soaked through with dampness, over his head, and tossed it toward the bathroom. Better to just hole up here. It's not like he'd never taken care of himself before - heck, before he'd returned to LA, he had been taking care of himself since he'd left home for college. Well, there had been a period of time in Albuquerque when Kim had looked after him…he kicked his shoes toward the bedroom. _Okay, better not to dwell on that - it was a long time ago, and it was enough to be - go on, say it! - __sick__ - without being sick and depressed._

He heard the heat come on and smiled. Now, let's see - should he crash on the couch, where there was a television, or the bed, where there was an electric blanket? The bed looked rumpled but inviting, and he reached into the tumbled covers to switch on the blanket. He dragged on a fresh tee shirt and reached for his sweats. _Bed it was. _He crawled in among the covers.It felt surprisingly good to be down and still. He rolled on his side to accommodate a cough that tickled his lungs and closed his eyes. There were probably worse ways to spend a Friday night. It's not like he had a date anyway.

_PS As for what crackles are - Charlie will eventually tell you. But I think it becomes kind of obvious before that._

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews. I'm sure Don appreciates all the offers to nurse him back to health - he could use a little TLC about now._

**Chapter 3**

_Use Care when Operating Dangerous Machinery_

Don awoke abruptly to the sound of coughing. It took him a befuddled minute to realize it was his own and he rolled onto his back, sat up abruptly when that made the coughing worse, leaning forward until his forehead almost touched his knees. Something sloshed wetly inside his chest and he made a face. _Gross. Now where was that cheratussin stuff…?_ He groped for the bottle on the nightstand and rubbed at his watering eyes until he could see the label. _Gee, could they make that type any smaller? Prescriptions were definitely not packaged with sick people in mind. _He blotted at his eyes again. _Let's see…one to two teaspoons as needed…do not operate heavy machinery…may cause drowsiness…_

Well, the drowsiness was incidental. He could hardly keep his eyes open as it was. Amazing how a little coughing could wear you out. He thought about getting out of bed for a spoon, but the short walk to the kitchen suddenly seemed like miles. A swallow was about a teaspoon or two, right?

He fought irritably with the cap before it flew off, burying itself somewhere in the sheets. _Damn. _He took a quick swallow and slapped it back onto the nightstand. He'd find the cap later. He leaned over the side of the bed for one of the bottles of water he had left lined up on the floor and had to make a grab for the sheets as the room careened unexpectedly to one side.

_Whoa. What was that about? Had to take it a little easy with the leaning._ He dragged the bottle of water under the covers with him and poked the controls to turn up the electric blanket. _Freezing in here. _Which was really weird, because now this shirt was soaked through with sweat too. He took a long swallow of water, then pushed the bottle onto the nightstand, next to the cheratussin. Man, he was thirsty. His lips were actually chapped. He squirmed under the covers until he had maneuvered the wet tee shirt over his head, then threw it on the floor next to the bed and huddled deeper into the blankets.

He didn't need it anyway. He had his beautiful electric blanket. He sighed as the heat curled around his skin and coughed again. _Bark, squish. _You could get tired of that sound real fast. He buried his face in the pillows and went back to sleep.

0

The next time the coughing shook him awake it was dark, and he recognized the sound as his immediately. He also figured that if this kept on for long, his near neighbors would be taking up a petition to get rid of him. One nice thing about being at Dad and Charlie's - the only people he disturbed there were…well, Dad and Charlie. Okay, maybe that wasn't better after all. He sank back into the pillows and reached for a tissue to blot at the water running from his eyes and then blew his nose. Funny how his nose needed blowing, but his head wasn't stuffed, like a cold.

He coughed again, made a face at a particularly ugly squishing noise. Was it time for more of that chera-stuff yet? It knocked him for a loop, but it did seem to help the cough. He glanced at the illuminated numbers on his nightstand clock. _3 a.m. _How many hours between doses? He couldn't remember. He groaned out loud. _Oh, God - don't make me turn on the lights! _

Maybe…maybe it would be okay to risk a swallow. It had been a good…well, hell, he couldn't remember how many hours, but it was probably enough. He patted the nightstand, feeling for the plastic bottle, remembered in time that he had lost the cap and lifted it carefully and took a sip. _Good. That should do it. _Probably he should try to eat something, too, but that would mean actually leaving the bed, and somehow that seemed like a whole lot of work. He tried to mentally review the contents of his refrigerator. He had the orange juice. There might still be something left of that loaf of bread…wait a minute, how old was that loaf of bread again…? Oh, well, he'd know when he saw it. But that meant he was definitely going to have to turn on the light and he was definitely going to have to get out of bed.

He sighed in the dark. If he was at Dad and Charlie's, food would magically appear in front of him, without him having to move at all. He steeled his resolve and reached for the light switch. _And that's the problem, Eppes - you're getting soft. Dependent. A little more coddling and you won't be good for anything. Get out of this bed and make yourself some toast and orange juice - just like the old days. It won't kill you. Keeps you tough. Builds character_. He hit the light switch and slapped his hands over his eyes with a chocked cry - _Ouch! _- then peeled them away impatiently. _See? Turning into a big wuss. Man up, Eppes. Get up. _

He struggled into sitting position with a strangled cough and dangled his legs over the side of the bed, letting his head rock in his hands. _Ouch, ouch, ouch… Okay. Okay. Up. Don't make such a big deal out of it. You just have a couple of…crackles. You'll live. Probably_. Clinging to the night table, he eased onto his feet. _There. See? You're upright. Well, almost. _He wrapped one arm carefully around his torso, curling over it.

Who stuck all those spikes in his chest? And why did they keep sawing them in and out?

Stumbling a little in the dark, he shuffled toward the small kitchen, trailing his free hand along the wall to guide and steady him. More prepared this time, he only squinted as he switched on the kitchen overhead. _Okay. Not bad. _Now all he needed was a little nap before he poured his juice…he leaned his forehead against the refrigerator door and rested for a second. _This was just plain stupid. _How could he be so tired? And why was his heart hammering about a million miles an hour from a short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen of his far-from-spacious apartment?

"I'm an athlete, for God's sake - " he muttered to himself. "A field agent. I passed my last physical drill with flying colors." He straightened slowly and gave the refrigerator door handle a tug, blinking a little when it remained firmly closed.

_Lame_…he tugged again, harder, swearing breathlessly as it gave this time with an intemperate jerk that slammed the door into his chest wall. _Son of a…_

He swayed back against the wall behind him, still clinging to the door handle, huddling behind the refrigerator door to catch his breath, which seemed to be racing along even faster than his heart. The cool refrigerator air poured over his bare feet, reminding that he was far from the refuge of his electric blanket.

This, he decided with fervor, totally sucks.

He let go of the door handle and maneuvered his way around the door to the chilly blast of the open refrigerator. _Let's make this fast. Okay - juice…bread…butter…whoops? Okay, no butter. Who needs butter anyway? It's not even good for you. Dry toast, then._ He let the door swing closed again, sighing with relief when it sealed off the draft of cold. Okay, throw some bread in the toaster…huh. Well, he could cut off the green parts.

He chopped randomly at the bad spots on the bread and dropped it in the toaster, suppressing the lever while he turned his attention to the juice. _Glass. _That should be easy. If he could straighten up enough to reach the right shelf. He was greatly cheered to see that he had left a glass in the dish drainer and up-righted it to pour the juice.

He was embarrassed to notice that the juice slopped over the rim and dribbled onto the floor, jumped back a little to keep it from hitting his toes.

Man, he thought ruefully. Just as well there's nobody here to witness this pathetic display.

He took a deep swallow from the glass, fumbling for a paper towel to mop up the spill, just as a familiar, acrid odor seeped past the stuffiness in his nose. He spun his head in the direction of the toaster with an unwise jerk that made the room twirl, to see an ominous trail of black smoke curling upward from the bread slot.

_Come on, Eppes - what kind of loser can't even make toast…? _

He yanked the electric cord free from the plug, shoving the toaster lever up and down, trying to get it to disgorge the bread.

_You could stick a knife inside the slot and just put an end to your misery_…the bread sprang free in a shower of hot, black crumbs, just as the shrill of the smoke alarm broke the quiet of the early morning.

_Crap. _His neighbors would definitely be petitioning to get rid of him…

Waving the smoke aside, he grabbed the step stool and clawed at the plastic cover of the smoke alarm, pulling it free and throwing it aside, tearing the batteries from their moorings and tossing them after it. He sank down on the step stool and let his head loll against the wall for a second, waiting for the sounds of angry neighbors in night gear, wielding torches and pitchforks, gathering at his door. _And what kind of a moron puts a toaster under the smoke alarm…? _Not that there was a large selection of outlets to choose from…

When there were no stirrings from the adjoining apartments, he forced himself to straighten up, as far as that was possible, anyway, coughing tediously at the combination of smoke and mucus clouding his lungs. He staggered back to the sink, noticed with resignation that he had upset his juice somewhere in the melee, and grabbed for a fresh clutch of paper towels. He mopped at the juice, trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to try and pour another glass, or to open the door to air out the apartment, or to scrape another piece of bread clean enough for toast. The smoke hung low, clinging to him, stinging his eyes. An odd cold stole through him and he paused suddenly in sopping up the orange juice, braced his hands along the edge of the sink, tightening his fingers around the porcelain rim in a white-knuckled grip. Uh-oh. He wasn't going to…?

He tried to take a deep breath, choked on a mouthful of smoke and phlegm. _Oh, yeah._ He was definitely…

He didn't even have time to finish the thought before he bent double and threw up in the sink.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: So I'm getting that most of you agree with Terry Lake that Don isn't as good at taking care of himself as he thinks he is. __Patty, I think your comment could be the story's subtitle: "sometimes it just doesn't pay to man up and go it on your own". Of course, if he knew how many of you ladies were willing to offer TLC, I'm guessing he wouldn't bother to man up at all. He's stubborn - not stupid._

_Since so many of you are tender hearted (unlike me, apparently), when deciding where to break the next chapter I made sure Don got a little respite, so this chapter's a little longer. _

**Chapter 4**

_A Chest Cold Thing_

_What kind of perverse_…Don pressed the dish towel over his eyes, then used it to blot one more time at his mouth…_contrary_…he groped among the sheets until he found the electric blanket controls and bumped the heat up a notch…_mixed up_…his hand brushed against the cardboard sides of his Kleenex box and he pulled it to his chest and let it rest there…_illness_…_makes you hack up a lung AND puke your guts out _- _both_? One or the other - sure - it wasn't fun, but it was normal enough - but BOTH? That was just downright unfair. He tried the damp dish towel against his forehead this time. The coolness was heavenly, and he let it rest there.

Maybe it was just the orange juice. Or the slightly ancient bread. He shifted against the sheets, trying to find a cooler, drier spot. On the other hand…the doctor had asked him if he had thrown up at all yet. The "yet" probably should have given him a hint of things to come. If he hadn't been in a such a hurry to grab his prescription and run, he might have paid more attention.

He rolled onto his side, coughing helplessly, moved the dishcloth again to clean his mouth. _Gross. _Maybe he needed another pillow. He was already propped up on three, but maybe he needed more. _Yup - sleeping bolt upright - that was restful. Still, better than the kitchen floor._

He had hung over the sink, forehead resting against the cool porcelain side, until he was sure there wasn't going to be a repeat performance, then he'd slid bonelessly to the floor and sat there, cheek pressing against the smooth surface of the lower cabinets, trying to decide whether he could make it back to his bed, or if he should just stretch out here for the night. Another bout of coughing had doubled him over and made up his mind for him. No matter how wretched he felt, the bedroom contained two indispensables: the cheratussin, and his electric blanket. He'd crawl there, if necessary.

It hadn't exactly been a crawl - more of a staggering lean, ending with a graceless thud among the covers, but the result had been worth it. Reunited with his pillows and his electric blanket at last. Really, the doctor needn't have worried - he hadn't the smallest desire to stray from this bed before Monday morning. For one thing, he could definitely cross messy little details like eating off the agenda. He had his water supply, his drugs - he could hunker down until the first sound of the Monday morning alarm.

_Monday. _He flipped through his "to do" list in his mind, or tried to. Somehow, all the details that usually sat, neatly marshaled, in the front of his consciousness, were a muddled mass of vague fuzziness. Worse, he found he didn't really care. He coughed again, hitched himself further up on the pillows and closed his eyes. Maybe since he'd thrown up the cheratussin it was okay to have more? He blotted at his watering eyes and reached for the bottle. _One to two teaspoons every four to six hours. _Yeah - okay. He should be in the clear. _May cause drowsiness_…like he needed help feeling drowsy…_alcohol may intensify this effect_…well, that wasn't gonna be a problem - even a beer didn't sound good…_use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery_…no problem there either…unless the toaster counted as dangerous machinery…_may cause dizziness_…that explained a lot…_taking more of this medicine than recommended may cause serious breathing problems_…just what he needed, more breathing problems…_medication should be taken with plenty of water_.

_Water. _He reached for the half-empty bottle on the nightstand and pulled it under the covers with him, next to the Kleenex box. _Check. _He was golden. Now he could sleep through til Monday. He dragged the covers higher and closed his eyes, coughed into a Kleenex. The sloshing sound under his left collarbone made him grimace, and he turned on his side and tried to get comfortable, but the tang of smoke still hung in the air and stung the back of his throat. He tried a sip of the water, then drained the rest of it in one shot and tossed the bottle on the floor. _I have some reports I could be catching up on_…he mused, curling into a tight ball and closing his eyes. _Where the heck did I put those anyway…?_ That was his last conscious thought for a long time.

0

_Voices. _Too low to make out the words, or even identify…girlish giggling…who was the last girl he had given a key to the apartment to…? _Can't remember. _Wait a minute, he _was_ in his apartment, right…? Opening his eyes would be the best way to find out, but that suddenly seemed hard, so he tried to take mental inventory instead. All the appropriate body parts appeared to be in place. He shifted, trying to breathe life into torpid limbs. And coughed, with a wet rattle that brought it all back. _Oh, yeah. Sick._

The voices stopped suddenly, and for a second he thought maybe they'd just been a remnant of some dream. He fumbled for his Kleenex box and tried to remember when he'd last taken the cheratussin as the cough took root deep in his chest, a barking string that tore at his lungs and doubled him over. He cradled his head in his palms as it finally slowed, smearing the streams of water blurring his eyes with the back of his hand, a colorful string of profanity dancing through his head.

"Don?"

He pushed his head up and squinted his eyes open with a frown. _Charlie?_

"Don?"

His name was followed by a light knocking on the bedroom door this time, and he leaned his elbows on his raised knees and let his head loll against his folded forearms. _No, Charlie, some burglars stopped by to cough up their lungs in my bedroom, where I keep all the valuable nothing_. He tried to summon the breath to answer, but it came out as a cough.

"Don, are you home?" This time, the door slowly swung inward, and a familiar face appeared in the aperture.

"Take a guess." _Whoa_. His voice had really disintegrated in the last couple of hours.

The whole body appeared in the doorway this time. "I thought you had some kind of drill all day."

"Yeah…" Don eased himself back on the pillows and closed his eyes. "Had to call in sick."

"Sick? You?" Charlie hit the light switch and moved closer to the bed. "Must be bubonic plague or something?"

"Funny." Even through the scratchiness, Don's tone made it clear that it wasn't. He shielded his eyes against the yellow glare of the overhead light. Charlie lingered uncertainly by his bedside and another thought occurred to him. "What are you doing here anyway, at - what - " he blinked away the moisture swimming in his eyes and tried to bring the clock into focus, "Nine-thirty? On a Saturday morning?"

"Oh - um - " Charlie flushed, glanced back toward the bedroom door. "I - didn't think you were going to be here…"

Don fumbled for his Kleenex and tried to clear his mind enough to work out Charlie's expression. "Yeah." He paused to hack into the tissue. "…when you thought I wasn't going to be here?"

"I just - um - " Charlie rocked uncertainly from one foot to the other. "Well - Dad - um - has Millie over, and Amita and I had planned to spend some time together, and you said you had a twelve hour drill today, so I thought…"

"Oh." This time Don laughed, and it morphed into a tight, airless cough. "Sorry."

"Yeah, well - " Charlie shrugged, picking up the bottle of cheratussin and looking at it. "Codeine cough syrup. You went to a doctor and everything. What have you got?"

"I lost a bet." Don growled hoarsely. "It's - some - chest cold - thing."

"Chest cold, huh?" Charlie picked up the azithromycin and turned it over. "Antibiotics? You don't take antibiotics for a cold."

Don reached out a hand to grab them back, missed miserably. "What are you, an MD now? Put those down - I haven't been on them twenty-four hours yet - I'm contagious and they're probably covered with my germs."

Charlie didn't seem to hear him as he nudged Don's leg out of the way and sat on the edge of the bed, still reading the azithromycin package. "These sound like they're pretty strong."

"Good," Don retorted, his voice cracking on the word. "Cause I feel like hell." He groped for the Kleenex box as another cough exploded from him with a grotesque burbling sound.

Charlie made a face. "Gross."

Don breathed into his Kleenex. "Tell me about it."

Charlie's frown became more puzzled as he studied the long gash in the azythromycin package. "What the heck did you use to open these things, anyway? A machete?"

"Didn't want to fire a gun in an enclosed space."

Charlie laughed. "You need one of these?"

"Not til tonight. One a day." Don balanced the Kleenex box on his chest. "Look, Charlie, it's not that I don't appreciate the interest, but you have a gorgeous girlfriend in the next room - wouldn't you rather be spending the day with her than sitting here, listening to the variety of sounds my chest can make?"

"Amita!" Charlie jumped to his feet.

Don snuggled deeper into the pillows. "Take her to a hotel or something."

Charlie made a face. "Doesn't that seem kind of - sleazy?"

"Naw - one with a spa. You can both get massages - try out the hot tub - it'll be romantic."

Charlie looked thoughtful. "That's not a bad idea."

Don turned on his side. "Not my first time. Turn out the lights on your way out."

Charlie hesitated with one hand on the door. "Look, you sure you don't need…?"

"Somebody to watch me sleep? Listen to me hack?" Don's voice cracked again and he coughed to clear his throat. "What do you think?"

Charlie nodded, lingering in the doorway. "Call if you need anything?"

Don was already half asleep again. "Say hi to Amita," he mumbled into the pillow. The room went mercifully dark. He was only distantly aware of the murmur of voices outside his door before they disappeared all together and sleep pulled him under.

So it was a rude awakening to be dragged back to consciousness what seemed like only minutes later by the bedroom door swinging inward and Charlie, stumbling a little as though shoved from behind by a forceful but unseen hand, staggering in.

Don gave a groan that was half a sob, his eyes open to the merest slits, hoping they were conveying the glare he felt inside.

Charlie caught his balance on the end of the bed and cleared his throat. "So - uh - we've been talking it over, and Amita - " he glanced back over his shoulder at the door. "That is, Amita and _I_ - we _both_ feel, that we can't - um - just leave you here and enjoy the day without making sure you have everything you need." He nodded as though checking to be sure he had remembered the entire speech and patted his pockets, producing a small pad. "So - " More patting, and a much-gnawed pen appeared to join the pad. "What can we get you?"

Don stared at him through rheumy eyes, then rolled over with a groan. "Peace and quiet?" he pleaded at last, through the mounds of pillow.

"Yes, well," Charlie came around to the side of the bed, pen poised at the ready. "You must need _something_." He glanced at the door again and lowered his voice. "Listen, bro, here are my choices - I can either impress my girlfriend with my nurturing and compassion, or I can come across as the heartless schmuck who abandoned his sick brother because he hopes to score with his girl. Help me out here."

Don liberated one eye from the pillow, groaned again at the sight of Charlie's much-practiced hopeful look. He flipped onto this back and sniffed, reached for a tissue. "Don't hesitate to pimp my misery for your libidinous ends," he rasped.

Charlie broke into a smile, dropping onto the edge of the bed and giving Don's leg a pat through the covers. "I knew you'd understand." He waggled the pen expectantly. "So…?"

Don ground fresh moisture from his eyes and sniffed. "No orange juice," he said finally.

"Okay." Charlie waited, then, when nothing else seemed forthcoming, "Don, I can't tell Amita we're going to the store for 'no orange juice'. You gotta give me something." He suddenly noticed the garbage can pulled close to the bed and tapped it with his foot. "Were you sick?" Don nodded bleakly. "Then, bread for toast, right? And ginger ale?" He wrote busily. "What else? What sounds good?"

_Sleep. _Don started to blow out a breath, but it stuttered into a cough. He tried to concentrate. He was bound to want something in his stomach eventually, right? Hard to imagine now, but it could happen. "Cranberry juice," he decided at last.

"Cranberry juice it is!" Charlie's bright good cheer made Don long to kick him off the bed. "Anything else?"

Don closed his eyes. _Yeah, okay_…"Pudding," he finished. "Chocolate."

"Pudding." Charlie wrote vigorously, with the enthusiastic energy of a man who knew that a little investment in grocery shopping would bring rich dividends. "That it?"

Don's knuckles rapped against cardboard and he patted until he could identify the square outline. _Oh, yeah. _"More tissues." He sniffed again and plucked one free. "Jumbo box."

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Aw…go easy on poor Charlie. He's a little distracted right now, and it's not like Don is giving him very complete information. And while we may live by "girl code" (like Amita), Don and Charlie live by "guy code", which clearly states that no guy will come between another guy and his chance to get some for anything less than a suppurating chest wound and a complete inability to dial 911 independently. Anyway, this one may make you feel better about Chuck. Or not._

**Chapter 5**

_Green If You're Normal_

"Don?"

Don was shaken from a deep and logy sleep with the fuzzy impression that he was stuck in some recurring dream where his brother kept continuously popping into his bedroom to wake him.

"Don?"

He wondered what that could mean - something Freudian, maybe, or possibly a warning of some kind?

"Don - we're back."

_Wow. It sounded so real. _Maybe he was having fevered delusions. He had a fever, right? Or maybe somebody had set him on fire. He pushed at the covers, wondering if dream-Charlie would be able to put the fire out for him; was struck with a chill so strong that it rattled his teeth against each other and he dragged the covers back, crawling deeper into them.

"Sure you want those? It's like a steam bath in here."

"Freezing," Don objected, trying to remember if the earlier dream-Charlies had argued with him.

"Look, let me take your temperature. I think we bought a…um…"

There was a lot of rustling and Don slit his eyes to identify the commotion. He saw a hand that looked like Charlie's set a tall glass of some deep red liquid on his night table. He closed his eyes again and groaned. _Oh, God - it wasn't a dream. This was real. _He pried his lids apart again. _Still…the cranberry juice actually looked pretty good_…he made a quick mental check of his stomach. _Might work_.

"Here we are!" He felt the bed sink as Charlie parked himself on the edge again, something waving in his hand. "Open up."

Don actually opened his mouth with a smart remark in mind, then closed it in surprise when something slender and metallic tasting was shoved inside. "Hey - " he mumbled around it. His eyes crossed as he tried to get a look at the offending object. He paused, suspicious, then pulled it out to examine it. "Is this a _kiddie_ thermometer?"

Charlie snatched it back with a sigh of exasperation and hit the little button again, pushing it back in Don's mouth with an ease that Don found disconcerting. Somewhere along the way he must have lost his evasive action tactics.

"Amita picked it out," Charlie hissed, sotto voce. "It's actually not a bad idea - " he continued more conversationally. "Especially for someone alone. The numbers are big and easy to read, and even if you don't read them, you can tell by the color if you have a temperature - green if you're normal, yellow if it's elevated, an - um - " the thermometer beeped and he frowned. "Hm. Red. That can't be good. What does it…?"

This time Don did beat him to it and plucked out the thermometer and depressed the button to clear it. "I haven't been on the antibiotics twenty-four hours!" he croaked. "Give them a chance!"

"Still. Should you be alone if you're running a fever? Amita and I could drop you at the house on our way. Dad's there…"

"With Millie."

"Well, I know, but I'm sure - "

"Charlie- " Don broke off for a series of burbling coughs and groped for a Kleenex. A fresh, oversized box stuffed with unsullied tissues appeared magically under his hand and he wheezed a sigh of gratitude. Charlie had even pulled one free. Don emptied his nose and tried again. "Aside from the fact that I really don't want to be the scourge of your and Dad's love life - " He broke off again as a new cough choked off the words, turned into a paroxysm that lifted him forward and kept his chest rattling and contracting for an excrutiating string of minutes.

He paused cautiously as they slowed, praying that was the end for this bout, found a small cylinder waving under his nose, then pushed insistently between his lips and tilted forward. He almost choked on a mouthful of cough syrup, then swallowed painfully. "Thanks," he breathed thinly, then, with a squint, "Is that a kiddie syrup thing?"

"Never mind." Charlie snatched it back. "It makes sense, really, when someone is trying to do this by themselves - fewer spills. Where's the cap to the bottle of cough syrup?"

Don grunted. "In the sheets somewhere."

Charlie made a disgusted sound and muttered something he couldn't make out, then continued, "The un-spillable teaspoon was Amita's idea too. She's really good at this."

The glow in Charlie's voice drew Don's first genuine smile, despite feeling like death. "So, now that you've finished your mission of mercy and nursed the sick - " He paused to grab a breath. Weird, the way his breathing kept rushing along so fast. " - grab her and go."

"Not yet. Amita's making you some toast."

"Toast?" He was trying to decide whether that sounded good, or dangerous.

"Yeah. We got you some matzo ball soup, too. It's not Dad's, but it looked good."

_Okay, that did sound hopeful. For later. For now, toast might be…uh oh…wait a minute._ "Are you saying that - Amita is in my _kitchen_…?"

"Yeah, well, it's easier to make toast with the use of a toaster."

_Oh, no, no, no_…he tried to remember if he had managed to at least rinse out the sink after the…incident…but it all remained a big blur.

"By the way, it looks like your smoke alarm exploded or something."

Don scrubbed a palm across his forehead, hoping to scrub the memory of early morning away. "I burnt some toast," he mumbled.

"Toast?" Charlie sounded concerned. "You weren't using that - bread - we found in there, were you? I mean, it was green!!"

"I trimmed off the mold," Don objected testily.

"Sorry, bro, but that stuff we found was only useful if you were trying to produce your own penicillin."

"Yeah, great." Don slid further under the covers. "Just what I need to make this complete, a little geek humor."

"I wouldn't be so sure I was joking." Charlie picked up the thermometer again and turned it over in his hands. "Look, why don't you just let me get some baseline data…"

Don pushed the approaching thermometer away. "It'll just bug you if you find something you can't solve. Ruin your whole afternoon." He turned on his side and closed his eyes.

There was a pause, and Don was half asleep when Charlie blurted. "Don't you think Dad would want - ?"

"No."

"It was _red_. I think we should at least - "

"Charlie." Don forced one eye open again. "It's no big deal. The doctor said I could even go to work Monday if I stayed in bed all weekend and drank lots of fluids. So I'm staying. In this bed. All weekend. Okay?" The long un-Charlie-like silence did not bode well, so he tried again, more coaxingly, "Look, I'm much too beat to haul my sorry butt all the way to Pasadena. I just need some sleep."

"…and fluids."

_Yeah, yeah _- just in case he didn't think Charlie was listening.

"So drink the cranberry juice."

"Sure, fine." Don flopped onto his back again and started the slow process of sitting up.

"We brought you some of that vitamin water, too."

Charlie was sounding brighter already. _Go, Charlie - hard to keep a good man down._ He accepted the tall glass of juice. The cool condensation edging the glass was a surprise against the dry heat of his palm and he automatically rolled the glass across his forehead.

"Amita and I could probably hang around…" Charlie sounded uncertain, but game.

Don took a sip then stopped, his eyes sliding closed in mute supplication. He swished the juice around in his mouth, choosing his words carefully, swallowed slowly. "Listen, Chuck - "

"My name's not Chuck."

"It gets your attention. Listen - I love Amita like a sister - I mean, she's a terrific girl - but she's _not_ my sister - or _my_ girlfriend. So that means, if she's here - " _okay, pause for air…_"…if she's here, I can't drag myself to the sofa and sit in my underwear to watch TV. I can't cough up a bucket of phlegm without having to say 'excuse me'." He scratched at one cheek. "And I should probably scrape my face if she's going to hang around."

"Amita wouldn't mind - "

"_I_ mind. And since I'm not up to any of those niceties, why don't you two just leave the juice and head off someplace? I appreciate the grocery run - really - but now I just want to enjoy my misery in peace." _Wow. Long speech._ Something else he really wasn't up for. If Charlie didn't leave soon, he was going to fall asleep mid-word.

Charlie gave a gusty sigh. "You'll call if you need anything?"

"Sure, sure."

"Finish the juice, and I'll see if Amita has the toast ready. I'll bring some of the vitamin water in here too, so you don't have to get up."

Don took another swallow of juice and rolled the glass over his forehead again. "You're a prince among men," he murmured. He checked in with his stomach, but everything seemed to be staying where it belonged. The juice actually tasted good. Maybe after another nap - he yawned deeply - or two - he'd feel like seeing what was on television.

"Toast."

Don forced his eyes far enough apart to see the plate of toast floating in front of him. _Almost like being at Dad and Charlie's, really. _He pulled himself up a little further against the pillows, blinking hazily.

"I could leave it here for later. But it would probably be good to get something hot inside you."

_Yeah. More heat inside. Just what I need. Like I'm not hot enough. That is, when I'm not cold. Man, this is a pain. _The toast wavered stubbornly under his nose until he could actually smell it. He rubbed his eyes clear. _Rye toast. Good woman, Amita_.

"Thanks." He picked up one of the semi-circles and bit it. His stomach stayed politely quiet and he closed his eyes in relief. It tasted good.

"You want some soup with it? I could heat up - "

"Naw - thanks - I'm good." He stopped chewing at Charlie's derisive snort. "For food, I mean."

"You're not - um - " Charlie tapped the garbage can meaningfully with his foot.

"Huh? Oh - no. I only threw up the once." That was a cheering thought. Maybe they were through with that part of the program. "You don't have to watch me chew - thank Amita for me, then take her and go."

"Okay. You'll finish the toast?"

Don sighed, coughed and groped for a Kleenex. "I'll do my best." He blew his nose. "Man. Do you nag your students like this?"

"I like to think of it as 'encouraging'."

"Whatever." Don finished the first half slice of toast and eyed the three pieces remaining with growing disinterest.

"Anyway, remember to call if you need stuff. Where's your cell phone?"

Don paged back in his memory, came up blank. "I don't know. Must be around here someplace."

Charlie had been in the midst of refilling the juice glass, but he stopped dead at that. He straightened slowly. "You don't know where your _cell_ is…?" He picked up the thermometer from the nightstand.

Don put the toast aside and held up a hand in protest. "Hey, hey - c'mon - I was really out of it when I got home. And my arms were full. It's around here."

Charlie crossed his arms, but he didn't release the thermometer. "Okay, where's your belt with your cuffs and, more importantly, your gun?"

_Um_…Don tried not to show the faint sliver of panic that shivered through his stomach. _Oh, come on_…he had walked in the door…put down his packages…taken the azithromycin…"…the gun locker?" He tried to make it sound more like a statement than a question, wasn't sure he succeeded. "Of course," he added lamely.

"Okay," Charlie's voice had an annoyingly even quality that Don was _sure _he used on recalcitrant students with late assignments. "And where is this gun locker?"

"Closet." He abandoned the toast and rolled over on his side. Damn, so he couldn't remember everything…he was _sick_. He watched Charlie move toward the closet with some trepidation. What if it wasn't there? He had absolutely no memory of taking it off and locking it up. Where else could it be? The hamper? The kitchen? Oh, man, this was _so_ not good…

Charlie knelt in front of the metal safe. "Combination?"

Don snuggled into the pillows and willed everyone to go away and stop asking him hard questions. _Combination_…he did it so automatically, he wasn't sure he even knew anymore what the numbers were. "What, you don't have some math magic you can use on it?"

"Well - " Charlie paused. "Given the actual possible number of combinations, in relation to - "

"Thirty-six," Don interjected hastily. _Man. _He should have known better than to get him started. "Um…seven. Fifteen. I think. I have to do it to be sure."

He watched through half-lowered lids as Charlie twirled the dial, then yanked on the handle. He wasn't sure whether he was pleased or a little worried when the door swung open. He automatically held his breath, then grabbed for a Kleenex when that started a chain of breathless coughs.

Charlie glanced at him, then sat back on his heels, his hands full of a length of belt with cuff pouch, holster, and cell phone caddy still attached.

_Phew. _That was a relief. Good hat trick, though. How had he managed that? "See?" he rasped into the Kleenex. "I always lock up my gun."

"Your cell phone, too. What's that for - to keep you safe from telemarketers?"

"I have a landline." Even he didn't think it sounded convincing.

"Yeah, right." Charlie pulled the phone out of its caddy and set it aside, then bundled everything else back into the safe and shut the door, spinning the combination lock. He stood and placed the cell phone on the nightstand next to the cranberry juice with pointed exactness, then jabbed a finger at it. "Use if you need anything." He tapped a nail against the juice glass. "Drink lots." He reached down and lifted a six pack of vitamin waters by the plastic rings and let them dangle. "Drink lots of this if you get sick of juice. Eat the toast. Don't forget your antibiotics."

Don settled an arm over his face. "Yes, Mom."

Charlie started for the door, turned back. "Look, are you sure - "

"Charlie!" He tried for command, but it came out sounding like a strangled midget. And coughed. Of course. Bark, squish. He grabbed a breath. "Get lost or I swear, I'm going to throw up all over you and give you this."

"Okay." Charlie held up his hands. "Okay. Um - just - if you can't get me, Dad - "

"Charlie." This time it came out as a groan. "Your girlfriend."

Charlie jumped as though electrified. "Amita!" He dashed for the door.

"Lights," Don called after him, and the room went dark again. He listened to the sound of voices outside his door until they faded down the hallway, then the click of a latch hitting home.

_Alone at last._

_TBC_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: I realize that a nice person would give Don a break at this point. Oh, well._

**Chapter 6**

_Plan B_

He woke slowly this time, shaken awake by the return of the bone deep chill and an arid dryness that actually burned his throat raw. He lay with his eyes shut, knowing he needed some kind of liquid to moisten his mouth, but wondering where he was going to get the energy to retrieve it. He fumbled under the covers for controls to the electric blanket and poked the button to jack up the heat.

Nothing happened. In fact, the whole blanket seemed surprisingly heatless. He lay there, trying to scare up some moisture in his mouth from natural sources and seesawing between sleep and waking, and began to notice other things…or the absence of things…the faint noises that were beneath notice until they weren't there…the hum of the refrigerator, the whoosh of the heat turning on, the faint rush of running water from other apartments.

Puzzled, he wrapped one hand around the electric blanket control and pulled it closer for a look. It was completely dark. No, warm, friendly little glow-in-the-dark illumination to show him the heat level. He pushed the button again, as though persistence would make something happen, then patted the blanket surface suspiciously. _Had it come unplugged somehow? _With all his thrashing around, it wouldn't be impossible. He reached for the lamp on the nightstand and turned the switch.

Again, nothing happened. He stared. He had an ugly, creeping suspicion that, despite his investigative instincts, he was refusing to acknowledge. _No. No, really. _This just couldn't be happening when he was stuck at home in bed, feeling like hell. Maybe he had a blown fuse or something. He blotted at his eyes and grimaced. _Cold comfort - no pun intended - considering the fuse box was five flights below in the basement. _He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned.

How was it that he made life-and-death, split-second decisions every day and suddenly, whether to drag himself to the door for more information or lie flat on his back until he died or the power came back on, seemed too tough to figure?

Okay - a little mind over matter was what he needed - screw his courage to the sticking place. _Pull back covers. Swing feet over side of bed. You can do this. You've done tougher things. Technically, anyway_. He checked his progress, noticed with some dismay that he hadn't moved an inch.

Come on, he chided himself, the sitting up part is easy – the way you're propped up, you're pretty much there now. _Now, pull back the covers_…his hands knotted around the covers aimlessly. _Okay, you can take the covers with you, just try swinging your legs. Go on. Right over the side. _

Using the covers as ballast, he dragged himself upright and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. The room pitched wildly to the right and he clutched the covers tighter, then more urgently, as his equilibrium floundered. The covers snapped free from the foot of the bed and dropped him unceremoniously over the side, the mattress edge dragging his tee shirt upward, dumping him on the area rug next to the bed on his backside. Stars wheeled in his vision, blotting out the dark shadows of the room, and he sat for a moment, half-stunned, trying to re-center himself. _Um – ouch. _

He closed his eyes. The stars were still there, a bright, undulating panoply of color. _Maybe the whole staying in bed thing hadn't been such a bad idea after all._ A faint draft whispered along the floor, curling around his feet, and he shivered. Especially since the heat was run by electricity. A cough exploded from the tight knot in his chest and he braced himself, waiting for the spell to pass. Man, he was freezing. Bet if he tried that lollipop thermometer of Amita's it would be nice and bright red. _Maybe it was time for more of the chera-stuff. Or the antibiotics. What time was it anyway? _

He could hear the rain chattering against the window, hard and steady. Could be night – could just be the weather making it dark. He pried his lids apart and sought the digital glow of the bedside clock, but that was dark too. Reflexively, he glanced at his left wrist, then smiled. _There we are…who says annoying habits can't be your friends? Let's see…the big luminescent hand is on the eleven, and the little luminescent hand…a little after midnight._ He should call the power company - see if they had an ETA for the return of power.

He reached up and groped around the night table until he felt his cell phone and pulled it down, flipping it open. Hm…the trouble line for the power company…he opened the lower door of the nightstand and dragged out a phone book, flipping through the yellow pages, pulling the book close to his face before dropping it in disgust. _Yeah. One thing that came in real handy when you were trying to read the phone book - light._ He had a flashlight around here someplace, right? Where did he leave that last time he used it? Well, he could get up and look for it…that is, he could if there were any lights to see by. _Man_. He let his head thud back against the mattress. _Okay, plan B. _He needed a plan B.

He wasn't sure how much later he jerked himself awake again, shivering. _Yeah, okay. Plan B wasn't actually meant to be falling asleep on the floor by the bed._ He needed a better Plan B - one which actually got him information. Well, there was no way around it - motion was called for - motion from an upright position. What was it they used to say when he was training for the Rangers? No pain no gain? And Quantico? No guts no glory? C'mon - he'd been through worse than this. A few little crackles weren't going to keep him down.

He slung one arm up on the mattress and the other on the nightstand and pushed, levering himself to his knees. _Good. Good start. Now let's try for the whole standing thing. _He pushed again, harder, dragged himself high enough to slide back onto the edge of the bed, breathing hard and fast, head hanging.

Well, this is just sad, he thought grimly. Considering the number of pull-ups I need to do just to keep passing physical drill. He counted slowly to fifty, thought about trying to stand, then counted to fifty again instead. _Okay. Okay. Up. Feet. Walk._

He was up. He was even walking…sort of. He traversed the corridor that bridged the living room and the bedroom slowly, hand on the wall for support. When he felt the edge of the doorjamb that indicated the front door, he stopped. There were stealthy noises outside in the hall, so he couldn't have been asleep too long…he glanced at the luminous dial of his watch again. Only twelve-forty-five. And it was Saturday night, right? Could be somebody coming home from a night of fun. Not as much fun as his, of course…

He fumbled with the chain lock and freed the deadbolt, pulled the door cautiously inward, using the doorjamb as a leaning post. The hallway was dark, windowless, and blacker even than the inside if his apartment, and it took his eyes a minute to adjust. He heard whispered voices and saw a thin beam of light bouncing along one wall from the direction of the stairwell. He coughed, a gurgling blast of air. The voices stopped, the beam of light steadied.

"Hello?"

He coughed into his fist again, then cleared his throat. "Hey." _Wow. _He hardly recognized that voice as his own.

"Hello. We thought everyone had cleared out. We're the Rosenblooms – you know, 415?"

"Eppes. 412." He blinked as the flashlight beam played over him in the narrow wedge of the open door.

"Sure. I recognize you." A woman's voice this time, one he vaguely recognized from occasional pleasantries in the elevator. "The power's out for the whole building. Hadn't you heard?"

He shook his head. "I've been pretty out of it." He coughed again.

"Lightening hit a transformer – the whole block is down. They're not sure they can get it up and running for a couple of days, so most people cleared out for places with power. We just found out about it ourselves and came back to throw a couple of necessities in a bag." The beam danced over him again. "Do you have someplace you can go? You shouldn't stay here – really, you sound terrible."

"Oh, I'm – " His bravado voice was definitely not as convincing when it was artificially deep and scratchy. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

"You really need to clear out of here – it'll start getting cold after a while." The woman took a step forward, and for an uncomfortable moment, Don was sure she was going to feel his forehead. "Really, we could drop you somewhere. We can't feel comfortable leaving without knowing you have someplace to go."

Don sighed, which brought on another raw, breath-snatching clutch of coughing. _Really need to remember not to do the sighing thing._

The double shadows behind the flashlight beam must have exchanged a look, if the faint black-against-black motion was anything to judge by. "Isn't there someone we can call for you?" The woman's voice again.

He gathered as much air as he could manage and tried to straighten himself. "Naw – really, that's okay."

He could feel a damp chill settle in the air as the last of the heat faded, tried to imagine spending the next twenty-four hours curled tight for warmth in the cheerless dark. _It's a wise man, Eppes, who knows when he's run out of options._ He sighed, inwardly this time, and tried to pin on a perfunctory, and probably invisible, smile.

"I have somewhere I can go."

_TBC_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: After I named this chapter, I realized the title might not be relevant after a certain generation. Oh, well. I do think Amita deserves a little break - it's awkward to step into family dynamics when you're not sure what will be crossing a line and she's pretty young - hard to know what her experience with illness might be or if she's in any position to judge what's serious and what's not. _

_Anyway, I really loved everybody's input - made me kind of wish you'd all been around when I was writing, it gave me so many ideas. _

**Chapter 7**

_Phone Home_

It was one thing to have somewhere to go, Don thought, dragging the heap of blankets over his shoulders as tightly as he could manage, and another to call or drop in at – what was it now – one thirty in the morning? - much later by the time he got to Pasadena – and cough the whole household awake. No, he would call Charlie's in the morning and ask for a place of refuge, but _in_ the morning – the sane, civilized morning – not in the middle of the night. Besides, he needed at least a little hint of daylight to gather things he would need – his medications, a change of clothes, the matzo ball soup. It wouldn't kill him to spend one night huddled on the sofa, waiting for dawn. He coughed again. The cough might kill him, but the waiting wouldn't.

He closed his eyes tightly and willed sleep – so relentlessly at hand previously – to come quickly and bring morning with it. Somehow, it eluded him.

His medication might help. He was due for both another round of antibiotics and cough syrup, probably. But with his luck, if he went fumbling around in the dark after them, he'd probably upset the capless bottle and drop the card of pills somewhere out of reach. No, he could hang on until he had a little light to work with.

He sniffled. On the other hand, he'd about kill for his box of tissues. He mentally envisioned the dark walk down the corridor to the bedroom and abandoned the idea. Almost worth it, but not quite. His eyes shifted in the darkness toward the kitchen. Much nearer. He could make do with paper towels until morning. Of course, that would mean leaving his nest of blankets. He closed his eyes again and burrowed into the sofa cushions. Too many decisions that he just didn't feel equal to. He'd be much better off lying here until morning came. Who knows – they might even get a break from the rain. He snorted a laugh that morphed into a wet cough. _Yeah, right. _He'd lived through enough rainy seasons in California to know better than to hope for that.

He pressed a hand to his chest, on top of the odd gurgling under his skin. Too bad about the television. That's what he did during his usual bouts of insomnia – watched something, even if it was the sign-off test pattern. There was something soothing about the test pattern, actually. Now he was stuck alone with what passed for his thoughts and a whole lot of weird wheezy-bubbly noises that it was downright disturbing to know were coming from inside of him. He rolled over onto his back again and found the faint glow of his watch dial. Maybe time really had stood still. On the other hand, it was technically Sunday now and the doctor had told him that he should be able to go back to work on Monday, so things should be close to normal about then.

He felt an uncomfortable tremor of conscience. Okay, that hadn't been exactly what he'd said, but pretty close. Close enough. The thought cheered him up a little. He counted down the hours in his head, pushing aside the suspicion that sitting upright and awake at his desk for the length of the day was pretty darned hard to imagine in his current state. Another dose of the antibiotics – that would set him straight. He'd bring the chera-stuff with him. He slid back onto his side to forestall a cough and settled into an uncertain doze.

It was the cold that awoke him some hours later from dreams of trying to scale a towering glacier without the use of pitons, and pursuing a felon caribou across a series of ice floes racing down a frigid river, the intensity of the climb and chase and the freezing air stealing the breath from his lungs. The room was thoroughly chilled by now, and damp, and it took him a long moment to figure out where he was _(sleeping on the couch – okay, no surprise there)_, and why he was _(power outage – just as well he kept a stack of blankets stored in the front closet for guests and just such nights as this). _The room was filled with murky light, casting muted shadows on the ceiling. He could hear the unrelenting hiss of rain outside and he lay listening to it for a minute, his throat so dry that it ached. He should have brought one of the water bottles with him to the door, instead of just his cell phone. He reached for his cell on the coffee table and glanced at the time. Seven in the morning. Not great, but if he waited too long, both Charlie and Dad could be off somewhere. Still, he had to have something to drink first.

He jimmied himself upright and let his legs swing over the end of the couch, pausing to allow things to steady. _Okay – up and at 'em. _

_No, really, up and – that's better. In a relative world. Kitchen. Now._

He dragged one of the blankets with him, pulling it around his shoulders as he went, stumbling over the trailing end and catching himself on the kitchen archway. He paused to stare at his nemesis, the refrigerator. Seemed like in the battle of man against appliance, he had taken a couple of losses last time. In fact, maybe the faucet was a better way to go. Discretion being the better part of valor and all. He lifted the same glass from its position on the drain board and let the water run cold, opening his cell phone. He selected the correct number from his contact list, glancing at the time again.

Maybe it was too early to call on a Sunday morning after all. Maybe he should wait. He held the glass under the faucet. Maybe he should lubricate his voice first. He took a swallow of cold water and hit the button. What the heck. Maybe it would go to voice mail anyway. The phone trilled steadily in his ear as he took another swallow, then tugged his blanket more snugly around his shoulders. _C'mon, Charlie – pick up. It's freezing in here_. He could always go to a hotel, of course, but just thinking about the logistics involved in that plan exhausted him. The ringing stopped.

"Hello?"

_Crap_. Well, this early he should have guessed…"Hi, Dad."

There was a drawn out pause. Don could picture his father checking the caller ID display. "…Donnie…?" The voice returned cautiously.

"Yeah, Dad. Listen – "

"What's the matter with your voice?"

_Here we go._ "I have a – um – chest. Cold. Thing."

"A chest cold." Don couldn't tell whether he was skeptical, or just having trouble understanding him. "Sounds bad. How long have you had that?"

"Just – I – don't really know – couple days. Listen – "

"Have you seen a doctor? You never know when it could be something serious."

"Yeah, I have. Listen – "

"You have?" _Okay, that was definitely skeptical. _Why did people find it so hard to believe he'd see a doctor when he was sick? "It really _must_ be bad."

"I lost a bet," Don interjected, a little impatiently. "Listen – "

"So, what did he say?"

"What's that?"

"The doctor. About your chest cold."

"Oh. He said that if I took plenty of liquids and stayed in bed, I could go to work Monday. Look, Dad – "

"Did he give you anything?"

"What?" Don sank back against the wall, his eyes pinched shut.

"The doctor. Medicine. Did he - ?"

"Oh. Yeah. Couple things. Listen, Dad, it's – "

"Cause you never know. Even something that seems routine can do lasting damage."

"I don't think that's – I mean, I'm taking what he gave me – all that stuff. Dad, we've got – "

"What about a vaporizer?"

"Huh?"

"It's good for a stuffy head and chest. Do you have one? I think we've got one around here somewhere."

"The doctor didn't – look, Dad, I just need – " His voice tightened, exploded in a moist, burbling bark.

There was pregnant silence on the other end of the line, then, "That did _not_ sound good."

Don slid slowly down the wall until he was huddled on the floor and let his head tip forward onto his knees. "Dad," he squeezed out helplessly, "Is Charlie there?"

"I didn't hear him come home last night – I suspect he's somewhere with Amita."

"Yeah?" _Way to go, Charlie_. He coughed again, had to hold the phone away when that cough led to another. And another. And another. He groped for his water and sipped it, willing the coughing to pass. Okay, that was two things he couldn't do with this - lie on his back, and talk on the phone. "Look, Dad - " He sounded like a four-pack-a-day smoker. He took another sip of water and tried again. "All I - " Another cough strangled his words.

The silence on the other end of the line was more portentous this time. "What exactly did the doctor _say_ about this chest cold of yours?"

"Dad…" He was way too tired for this. He let his forehead rock on his knees, not even bothering to try and lift his head this time. "I know Charlie's not there, but…the power is out in my building. Transformer. May not be up for a couple of days. I was hoping I could…crash there until it comes back on." _Phew. Big speech_.

"Donnie." The voice sounded relieved and scolding at the same time. "Of course you can - you know you don't have to ask. Do you need me to come get you?"

"No - naw - I can get there. I just need a place to crash, that's all."

"All right. Get here as soon as you can. I'll see if I can dig out that vaporizer. Do you have anything to rub on your chest? That might help too."

Don held the phone away again, something different clogging his throat this time. _Darn stupid crackles._ Turning him into a big baby. But like it or not, something about his father's brisk concern seemed like exactly what he needed. He waited until he was pretty sure of his voice, then croaked, "Thanks, Dad. See you soon."

"All right. Sure you don't need me to come get you?"

"Naw. I'm good." He pulled the blanket tighter, remembering something. "Say, Dad?" he blurted before he could stop himself. "Can I bring my electric blanket?"

_TBC_

_A/N: Whoops! Sorry, Patty!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Hm. When you go to break the story into chapters, it always seems to make sense at the time. But maybe I should have broken the last one a few paragraphs later. Anyway, the most burning question will be answered pretty quickly, and I guess some of you will be glad and some disappointed. I am sorry about that. Really, this story is mostly about how, no matter how bravely we rise to the big things in life, it's the every day things that seem to kick our butts. Thanks so much for the reviews - I enjoy them so much. Especially now that I've finally gotten the hang of the review reply feature!_

**Chapter 8**

_Plenty of Water_

The problem with pride, Don reflected as he huddled in the foyer, eyes on the window that peered out into the street, was that sometimes you didn't even recognize it until it was too late.

He had splashed water on his face, skipped shaving, struggled into something that could pass for street clothes, wrestled the refrigerator door into submission to retrieve his cranberry juice and his matzo ball soup, and was collecting his medications, before it struck him: _use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery…_aw, crud

He couldn't drive himself. Come to think of it, he didn't really trust himself to drive in this condition anyway - even without the medication. A little late to think of that. Well, the thought of his dad driving all the way from Pasadena in this weather to pick him up made him squirm anyway. He'd call a cab. On a rainy Sunday in LA. _Yeah - that should be easy._

It turned out to be pretty much as effort-free as he'd expected, until he was about ready to draw his gun and carjack a cab to Pasadena. Instead, he argued until he was hoarse - hoarser - coughing into the phone until a cab company acquiesced, agreeing to be there in an hour or so, probably just so they wouldn't have to hear him cough any more.

He wrapped his arms more firmly around his paper bag of stuff and watched the rain sheet the window.

That had been an hour and a half ago. Maybe they were afraid he'd give one of their drivers a deadly disease. Not without some justification.

The worst of it was that he'd pretty much needed that much time anyway. After what had felt like an amazingly complex debate with himself over whether or not to carry an umbrella, he had finally locked up and stood in the darkened hall, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light and locate the elevator banks. He frowned, running a hand over his hair. _Oh, no. Oh, damn. No electricity, so…_

_No elevator. _He was going to have to walk down. Normally, no big deal, but…he rubbed a hand across his forehead. Don't sigh! he ordered himself. You know what happens when you sigh…he coughed anyway. _Crap._

_Well, walking down it was_…the stairway door should be over there to his left. He felt for the door and pushed his way through. The darkness inside was absolute, and he had to wait a little longer for his eyes to gather even the vaguest images from the gloom. He was pretty good at finding his way down the stairs in the dark usually, but he was keenly aware that his balance wasn't all it could be. Better keep a hand on the railing. He shifted his paper bag to his free arm and skimmed the railing with the other.

_Okay, one landing, so that was, what - half a flight? Not too bad_. Good news was, he wasn't trying to go up.

A large, luminous "3" looming out of the dark told him that he'd made progress. _Okay, three flights to go._ He rested a hand tentatively over his heart. He couldn't get over how fast it was beating. How the heck could this happen to somebody who, on any given day, had to run UP flight after flight of stairs, arms carrying gun poised overhead, shouting orders? He massaged the area restlessly, pushing away the idea that this was anything but a passing condition. _People recovered from pneumonia, right?_ Of course they did. The doctor had talked about him working Monday.

Still, maybe he'd borrow Dad or Charlie's laptop and Google "pneumonia" - do a little research. See what he was up against. He hit another landing and folded abruptly, dropping down on a step with a thump. Man, his head was killing him. He'd just rest for a second.

He was feeling around inside his paper bag for a tissue when his cell rang. He reached for where he'd stowed it, in his jacket pocket, wondering in passing what he would do if it was work calling. _Gee, I don't know, Eppes - maybe you could grab a cab to go question a witness - scare a confession out of them by coughing all over them. Or maybe you could just add your own personal contamination to a crime scene_. He glanced at the number displayed. _Figures._

"Yeah, Dad."

_There was that stuffed-with-meaning pause again. _"You're breathing awfully fast."

_Don't sigh - don't sigh! _"What - you called to do a telephonic diagnosis?"

"Nasty cold hasn't slowed down your smart mouth, I see."

"What can I tell you. Hard to keep a good man down. Haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"No - I just wondered what was keeping you."

Don ran a hand down his face. It came away slick with sweat. "No electricity - so elevators are down. I'm not moving quite as fast as I usually do."

He could tell his father _did_ sigh. "I didn't think of that. Sure you don't need me to come?"

Don half smiled. "And what? Carry me down the stairs?" _Cough. _"Thanks, Dad, but I'll get there - just won't be record time."

"Okay. If you're sure. Oh - and I did dig out one of our old electric blankets."

Don rubbed his temples in regret. His parents never threw anything away. Probably be old and pilled with fuzz, full of those thick, stiff wires they used to use - nothing like his sleek, plush modern one. _Oh, well - can't be helped. Beggars can't be choosers. _

"Thanks." He coughed again. "Look - I'd better go. Phone makes me cough for some reason. Hear anything from your prodigal son?"

"Not a word. Get here as soon as you can. Call me if you run into trouble."

"Sure." He hit the button to end the connection and cradled his head in his folded arms for a minute. _Okay. How many more flights? Maybe it would be better not to count - just to walk. Hopefully the cab wouldn't be here early._

He snorted now at the memory. _Early. Yeah, right_. He was beginning to wonder if they'd ever show up. He could call them again - cough into the phone some more. At least that would give him the satisfaction of annoying them.

A blur of green and white stopped by the building entrance and honked and he stood up and moved closer to the window for a better look. _Finally. _He tightened his grasp on his paper bag and flipped up the jacket collar, trying to remember if he had finally decided for or against the umbrella. Probably "against", seeing as he had such a short distance from building to cab - hardly worth opening an umbrella for.

He leaned into the door to push it open and stepped from under the small overhang into the rain. If he was honest with himself, it felt kind of good. Cooling. When he got to Pasadena, maybe he'd try a cool shower. He splashed his way across the sidewalk to the curb, grimacing at the water that seeped into his socks, pulled open the rear door and slipped inside. The rain switched from a steady spattering on his hair to a steady thunder on the metal roof.

"You the guy for Pasadena?"

He nodded, irritated to find himself suddenly cold again. "Can you turn up the heat?"

_TBC_

_A/N: There are many things I could do to Don. And have. And no doubt will in the future. But criminal negligence just seems wrong for a nice law enforcement guy._


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Okay, so maybe there are no good places to break the chapters. Anyway - again, no doubt to the relief of some and the disappointment of others…thanks for reading anyway. _

**Chapter 9**

_Mecca_

"Mack."

He didn't think he actually knew anyone called _'Mack',_ so he didn't bother to open his eyes to the voice.

"Hey. Mister. Come on, bud - your stop - Pasadena - we're here."

_Oh. Oh, wait. Really? That was fast_.

He realized that he was slumped against the cab door, dead asleep, and tried to push himself erect and look alert. Opening his eyes would help a lot with that, he decided, and he struggled with his lids. They seemed to be gummed shut. He ground the heels of his hands in his eyes and frowned at the meter. _Okay, so maybe it hadn't been all that fast. Guess time flies when you're out like a light_. He dragged out his wallet and gathered an indiscriminate clutch of bills, thrusting them at the driver.

"Thanks – 'preciate it. Keep the change…" He yanked on the door handle and tumbled into the street.

"Hey, thanks, mack!" He heard the cabby call after him. "And say – that's one nasty cough you got – might want to take something for it!"

He gestured vague assent and stood for a moment, clinging to his bag, trying to get his bearings. Rain drummed down, drenching him. Through the vertical curtain of grey, he could make out the Craftsman, the porch light a warm yellow glow against the unrelieved monotone of earth and sky, a figure standing on the front porch, just out of the rain, hands on hips. He blinked away the rain and whatever else was crusting his eyes and hefted his bag higher in his arms, starting up the walk. _Dad_.

"No umbrella?" He heard him call as he got closer. "Come on, I taught you better than that."

He nodded hazily, mind mostly centered on putting one foot ahead of the other and on the figure under the porch light, his own personal Mecca. He looked so familiar standing there, so solid and steady, just as he'd looked a hundred times before when he'd been waiting expectantly, in good times and in bad, whether to welcome him home or to ream his ass. He reached the porch steps and stumbled a little, caught himself on the rail.

"You all right?"

He nodded again, wordless, mounted the short steps with his heart roaring in his chest, his breathing thundering in his ears. _Yeah. Yeah, pretty good actually. Now_.

Without a sound, he traversed the porch until they were face to face, then surprised himself by silently leaning into his father. The broad shoulder under his forehead froze for a minute, then he felt a soft chuckle rumble in the chest next to his.

"…all right…" a cool, callused palm curled around the nape of his neck and patted lightly, then paused, and he felt the bony back of the hand press against the skin under his chin. "Is that heat coming off of you?" There was a frown in the voice. "Let's get you inside out of the wet. And out of those clothes…" He allowed himself to be shepherded inside.

The light inside was startling after the grey outdoors and the lightless interior of his building and he stopped short, blinded. A strong arm lowered him onto some handy surface or other and he balanced there, relieved to be in out of the wet that was suddenly uncomfortable, making his clothes cling to him and dimpling his paper bag with dampness. He felt someone tug at the bag and instinctively held on tighter.

"Come on – let me have it. And give me your jacket. We need to get that shirt off…"

_Oh. Right_. He released the bag, jiggled his arms vaguely to free them from the sleeves of the jacket.

"What's in here, anyway? You didn't bring that blanket, did you? After I told you I found one?"

He shook his head mutely. Having made it this far, he seemed incapable of anything else. He felt a palm wrap around his forehead this time and looked up, blinking to focus.

A tongue clucked near his ear. "What's your temperature, anyway?"

"I don't know…" His voice came out as a modified croak and he made a half-hearted reach for his bag. "Brought a thermometer…"

"Really." That was a tone he didn't quite recognize. "I would have guessed you didn't even own one of those."

"'Mita got me one."

"Amita?" Now, there was a tone he _really_ didn't know. "What is Amita doing giving you thermometers?" Someone was tugging on his sodden shirt hem and he lifted his arms without thinking. The room disappeared for a minute as the shirt was dragged over his head. "Um – she and Charlie stopped by…yesterday, I guess."

"_Really._ First I heard of it. Is that what this is? A thermometer?"

"If it looks like a lollipop, yeah." The familiar metal cylinder was pushed between his lips.

"Silliest looking thing I've ever seen. I have a nice aural one up in the medicine cabinet – sit tight. I'll get you a towel, too."

Don didn't answer. He listed gently to his right until he felt his cheek nestle against the wall. _Nice. _The world hummed away from him.

"Hey." Something soft landed in his lap and made him blink and someone drew the thin cylinder from under his tongue. "You still in there?" He heard an unhappy grunt and something was thrust inside his ear this time. He reached up to brush it away and someone pulled his hand down. "Don't touch that - though it's nice to know you're still with us. You were starting to scare me." There was a beep and a disgruntled _'humph'. _"I think we'd better move this upstairs - I turned your electric blanket on. I'd like it better if you took a warm shower, but I'm not sure you're up for it, so maybe just a good rub with the towel - you can use that towel anytime." _Oh. _Don lifted the soft thing in his lap and blotted absently at his hair. "Well, it's a start. Come on - I've got your bag."

Something kept dragging insistently on his elbow, forcing him to his feet. He followed blindly, recognized the foot of the stairs and sank down gratefully on the second lowest step, making himself comfortable there instead.

"Donnie." The voice sounded exasperated. "Come on - we need to get you out of those clothes and into bed."

_Okay. _But he didn't move

Someone settled next to him on the step and slid a hand under his arm. "Your electric blanket is upstairs," a voice in his ear suggested.

He noticed for the first time that his chest was bare and that his teeth were chattering again. Reluctantly, he pushed himself to his feet, helped by the pull on his arm.

He must have managed the stairs somehow, but he had no real memory of it, just some bleary idea that he was in his building, trying to make his way down to the lobby again, and he had somehow got turned around and was going in the wrong direction. He kept trying to turn around and head downwards again, but the hand on his arm was relentless, pushing him upward. He tried to explain once or twice that they were going in the wrong direction, but he had the distinct impression that it came out as a cough instead. Finally, an iron grip forced him through a doorway and he stopped dead at the fuzzy sight of a bed, turned down and ready.

"Hang on, let me get a towel down until we can get those pants off - you don't need any more dampness…"

Time fractured some there, but it must have happened, because suddenly he was sitting down and someone was tugging his wet shoes off, then his sodden socks. Then fingers touched the waist band of his sweat pants and he held up his hands in alarm. "I'll…get those…"

"Glad to hear it. There's some dry stuff in here you can slip into…what's this?"

He managed to pry swollen lids apart. "Um…antibiotic…"

"For a cold? These doctors prescribe them for everything these days, whether they help or not…huh. These look pretty strong. What's this, codeine cough syrup? Where's the cap?"

Don picked awkwardly at the knot in the drawstring of his sweatpants. "In my bed." The knot finally gave way and he peeled off his sweats. _To heck with modesty. _He reached for the dry pair.

"You've got some pretty heavy duty stuff here for a cold. Sure it's not bronchitis?"

"Sure…." he answered, feeling virtuous at being able to answer in complete honesty. He got the clean sweatpants on and dropped sideways into the welcoming warmth of the pillows. As if by magic, the covers dropped over him. He coughed.

"When's the last time you took some of this?"

He opened his eyes far enough to see the cough syrup. "Don'remember."

"Well, I suppose it can't hurt. What's this - one of those measuring spoons they use for kids?"

"'Mita got it."

"Hm." He felt the telltale pressure of the cough syrup dispenser and swallowed automatically. "I'd like to know why your brother didn't bother to tell me you were sick."

"…date." _Man, the bed felt good. So warm. _He shrugged the covers a little higher.

"Nonetheless. A phone call would have done the trick."

"…wanted to. Told him…no."

"Humph." A brand new tone this time, and the callused hand was back at his forehead. He thought about making a token protest, but buried his face more deeply in the pillow instead. He could reassert his independence later. After a nap, say. "Are you hungry?"

"Naw…" Maybe Dad could hear him through the pillow down.

"Well, I'll start some soup. You'll want it later."

He remembered something and turned his face so it was free of the pillow. "Brought some soup…"

"Yes, I saw." The tone was filled with undisguised disdain. "You won't be needing _that_." The covers lifted by some mysterious force and tucked around his neck. "I'll bring it to the shelter next time I go." A hand rested on the back of his head, just for a moment. "Get some sleep."

Some of the cold ache seemed to leach out of his bones. He wanted to say thanks, but he was pretty sure that he coughed instead.

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Well, your reviews took me right back to the days when I was a kid at home with my own many siblings and one of us was going to get in trouble! Really made me laugh! Patty, I'm betting you're a good parent, or, if you're not a parent, a good friend. But have no fear - Alan is on the job, and he's no fool. _

_This chapter is a bit longer. Broken sooner it was too short, and broken this way, it answers what seem to be the most pressing questions. Special thanks to you folks who leave unsigned reviews, since I don't have any other way to thank you. I really love hearing what you have to say._

**Chapter 10**

_A Little More than a Chest Cold Thing_

Something was poking at his ear and he curled away from it, burrowing deeper into the covers. The poking persisted, following him, and he batted at it this time, groaning in sleepy protest as it dug deeper and stayed. There was a sharp beep, right in his ear, and he swallowed a hoarse whimper, hoping that if he held still it would go away and leave him alone.

"Donnie." A light rub at his shoulder. _No such luck, evidently. _"Come on, Donnie - I need you to wake up and swallow this - it will only take a minute."

Reluctantly he rolled onto his back and tried to will his eyelids into an upright position.

"Come on - I need you to sit up just a little, or you'll choke."

He was choking anyway, inside, his breath squeezing begrudgingly through the narrow airways in his lungs.

"Come on." The voice was sure persistent, and he won the battle against his eyelids and peeked. _Oh. Oh, yeah._

The light in the room had changed only marginally, the overarching greyness of the rain muting any differences between morning and afternoon. He sniffed, reached automatically for his Kleenex box.

"That's better…" The coaxing voice - the one that made him feel as if he was still six years old. "Swallow this."

He took the pink pill mindlessly, accepting the sports bottle of water as a chaser. Was it that late? Was he really ready for the antibiotic? Didn't matter, probably, as long as he did it once a day…

"Are you hungry? I think you should eat something before you doze off again, especially with the medicine in your stomach."

"I'm awake." His voice sounded like crap, and he cleared his throat cautiously. He heard a quiet laugh and forced his eyes further open. "I am," he insisted.

"All right. Your temperature is a little better. What do you feel up for? Soup? Toast?"

He grunted noncommittaly, oddly incapable of even the simplest of decisions.

"Well, juice definitely - you need plenty of fluids."

Don tugged the covers a little higher, running an appreciative hand over the electric blanket. It wasn't old after all - was almost as new as his, with a plush surface and thin, barely noticeable wires; a pale robin's egg blue. "It's new," he croaked.

"Yeah - just a few years old - I had to dig it out. I don't use it because it's too hot for me - but your mother loved it. Seemed like she was always cold, especially - well. You know."

_Oh. _

"Your mother loved nice bed things."

"She did?" He opened his eyes a little further. They swam with moisture, distorting his vision.

"Mm hm." There was an expectant air about his father's manner, as though he was waiting for something, and for a moment Don struggled to figure it out. "By the way, I talked to your doctor."

"My doctor?" _Did he mean the urgent care guy? Probably more a resident than a doctor. How would he talk to him?_

"That's right. I found the name and number on your cough medicine bottle."

_Oh. Okay. That made sense. _He remembered something and tried to hitch himself up against the pillows. "He said I could go to work Monday."

"Monday? As in _tomorrow_?" His father sounded shocked.

_Tomorrow? Was it almost Monday already? _But he had done everything he was told - or, almost anyway - bed rest, fluids - the whole bit. Sure, he didn't feel so hot right now, but he should be okay by tomorrow, right? "Yeah…" He paused, trying to remember everything. "Eight hours," he reassured. "No field work."

"Really." Dad didn't sound angry, though - more…amused. "Well, we'll see tomorrow morning, shall we?"

There it was, that _'I got a secret' _tone again. "I'll be okay by tomorrow." There was no ignoring the responding chuckle. "I will," he protested.

"Well, we'll see." In a tone that clearly meant _'in a pig's eye'_.

Don tried to think of something smart and convincing to say in return, but his throat hurt and his head ached and his brain was fuzzy.

"Anyway, I called your doctor because I wanted to ask about using a vaporizer - your breathing sounds very congested, and I remembered when you were young, they used to recommend it for some chest colds and not for others. Just couldn't remember which was which. While I had him on the line, he offered to renew the prescription for your cough syrup if you needed it…" The pause was dramatic and full of significance, but if Don was supposed to figure out why, then he was stumped. "…he said that it wasn't uncommon to need that in cases of…pnue-_mon_-ia." Alan dragged the word out pointedly, then waited.

_Oh. Oh, d - _Don swallowed painfully. "Oh, yeah. I guess he did say something kind of like…that."

"Really." Alan folded his arms and smiled a patient smile. "And when were you planning on informing me that this was a little more than a _'chest cold thing'_?"

"I don't know…" _Never. _"Doesn't make a difference, does it? Pretty much the same thing."

"No, son of mine, it is _not_ the same thing. A cold is a virus. Pneumonia is an infection - it means your lungs are filled with pockets of pus."

Don groaned and slunk down in bed with a cough. "…thanks for the mental image…"

"People _die_ from pneumonia."

Don squinted his eyes open at that. "I'm not going to _die_. He said I could go to work Monday. How big a deal could it be?"

"Really." The patient smile was downright patronizing now. "I'll be very interested to see that."

Don groped for a tissue and coughed into it. "Look, I didn't mention it because - I didn't want it to seem like this big - thing."

"I see. Well, here's a secret." Alan sat down on the edge of the bed and adjusted the covers around him. "It _is_ a big thing." He patted Don's chest. "I'll get you some soup."

Don frowned at his back as he moved to the door. "I'll be okay to work tomorrow."

His father's laugh trailed him out the door.

0

The soup was good. Not that he was surprised or anything, except maybe by how nice it felt to have something warm inside him. Much better than his own efforts at toast. Still, to his own puzzlement, his appetite seemed to disappear about halfway through the bowl and he lowered his spoon and gave his father an apologetic look. "It's great - I'm just not that hungry, I guess."

"That's all right." Alan removed the bowl, a faint crease in his forehead. He shot him a look from under his brows. "Maybe I can wrap it up for your lunch tomorrow. You know - at work."

"Sarcasm. Nice." Was he actually headed for another nap? Exactly how many naps could one guy take? "And I'm just going by what the doctor said, okay?" His voice disappeared on a squawk and a cough.

Alan handed him the Kleenex box. "I suspect he meant _if_ your temperature is normal and _if_ you keep a meal down and _if_ you feel well enough."

"Yeah?" Don tossed one crumpled tissue in the trash and tugged another free. "Then he should have said that."

"I suppose he was assuming some measure of common sense…I could have warned him."

Don made a face before taking the Kleenex box under the covers with him. "You know, your soup may be A+, but your beside manner is, like, a D," he rasped.

"Retribution for not coming clean with me. Cold?"

Don fumbled for the controls to the electric blanket, half opening his eyes at him. "…yeah…go figure."

"I'll get you another blanket."

Alan disappeared from Don's field of vision and he shifted, struggling to find a comfortable position on the mass of pillows. He opened his eyes in time to see a blue wool throw added to his tower of covers and sighed/coughed.

"How's that? Warmer?"

"Yeah. Dad?" He closed his eyes again. Yeah, he was definitely going for another nap…

"Hm?" The ubiquitous hand was at his forehead again. He didn't exactly mind.

"I lied. Your bedside manner is…top grade."

"Now you're just sucking up because you like my soup. Want me to bring the thirteen inch in here? In case you ever keep your eyes open long enough to watch some television."

He would like that, actually. Even without his eyes open, he liked the pleasant lull of background voices the television could provide. On the other hand, maybe he should make a real effort to wrangle himself downstairs…he tried to picture that and rolled onto his side instead. _Not gonna happen_…"If you don't mind…"

"I think I can manage. It'll come in handy - just in case you decide _not_ to go to work tomorrow."

_He keeps saying that like it's so funny. Some kind of self-defense is definitely in order here. _"Look, it's the doctor who said…"

The front door slammed. "Dad?"

Alan sniffed. "Residents. What do they know." He raised his voice. "Up here, Charlie."

"You're not - um - I mean - " Charlie appeared in the doorway. "Oh. Hey, Don. I didn't see the Suburban."

"He took a cab." Alan fixed him with a stern look. "You couldn't ferry your brother home when he's sick?"

"Hey, I tried. You know what it's like to try to get him to do something he doesn't want to do." He switched his gaze to Don. "Finally gave in, huh? I told you to call me if you needed anything."

"The power went out in my building."

"You should have called."

"I _did_ call - Dad answered." Now, this was one reason he preferred to be sick alone - nobody arguing with you. Much more peaceful.

"I meant my cell."

Don seriously considered pulling the covers over his head and pretending to disappear, the way he used to when he was small. Instead, he opted for changing the subject. "How'd it go with Amita?"

Charlie's face brightened. "Good. They had a really nice bistro on the premises…you were right - it was romantic."

Alan raised his brows. "You stopped by your brother's for romantic advice while you were on a date?"

Charlie looked indignant. "Of course not. I thought he was going to be out for the day."

"You stopped by…" Alan's brows drew together. "_Oh. _I see."

Charlie shrugged. "What can I say. Sometimes four's a crowd."

"Well, I see your point." Alan shook his head. "There has to be a simpler way for us to work out this shared living space."

Don closed his eyes. "We used to hang something on the dorm room door as a warning in my college days." _Hm. Something wasn't quite_…

"I'd prefer not to hear the details of your college dorm life. I'm sure they'd make my blood run cold. Speaking of which…" Alan turned the stern look back to Charlie. "You weren't even going to tell me your brother has pneumonia?"

"_Pneumonia?_" Charlie stared at Don. "He told me it was a chest cold thing!"

Don groped for another Kleenex. "It's - what's the difference? So it's a chest cold thing that needs…antibiotics." _Something was definitely a little_…

Charlie gave him a pitying look. "There is a little more difference between a chest cold and pneumonia than…people _die_ from pneumonia!"

"I'm not going to die!" Don winced as his voice broke on the last word and he coughed into his Kleenex. "I'm not all that sick! The doctor said I could go to work - " He broke off at his father's derisive laugh. "Okay, he might have said 'probably', but I am _not_ making that up. Call him yourself if you don't believe me, since you're so chummy now."

"Okay, so you're not going to die." Charlie set his jaw mulishly. "That's not the point. The point is that - that it shouldn't always require a cryptographer to interpret what you're really saying. When I asked you what you had, why didn't you just say pneumonia?"

Don kneaded his forehead. "_This_ is why. Say 'chest cold' and nobody gets excited. Say 'pneumonia' and suddenly everybody's all worked up." He paused and swallowed hard. He was cold again - a different kind of cold, that dampened his hairline and shivered over his skin.

"Well, if you'd just say that in the first place - "

"Never mind what he said," Alan interrupted. "- you should have called me or wrestled him here."

"You had a _date_. And he's bigger than me."

"Yes, he looks very intimidating at the moment. Amita could wrestle him right now."

"Hey, Amita is a lot stronger than she looks."

Don groaned. "_Way_ too much information, Chuck…" His stomach twisted within him and he wasn't entirely sure it was due to the mental images that statement incited. _Uh oh_…

Alan switched his exasperated gaze to Don. "And you should have just come home in the first place. You know better than this. Pneumonia is nothing to trifle with on your own. What if you'd gotten too sick to call? How long would it take us to figure out that something was wrong? The image of you lying there all alone in your apartment, needing help and unable to call for it, is not one I need added to my nights."

_The guilt card. _Usually Don responded instantly to the guilt card, but right now he had more urgent concerns. "Dad…" he tried in a small voice.

"Don't 'Dad' me. If you choose to treat your life so casually on the job I suppose I have nothing to say about it. But the least you can do off duty - "

_Casually? _Under any other circumstances, Don would have protested, stung, but he now recognized this particular type of cold and suddenly knew time was limited. No chance to get anybody's attention - looked like he was doing this on his own. He used the covers to drag himself up and tried to get his legs over the side of the bed.

Alan frowned. "What do you think you're - " He grabbed him by the shoulders and looked directly at him this time, his own face suddenly changing. "Charlie - " he said sharply. "Get me - "

But it was too late. Don no more could have stopped it than he could have stopped Vesuvius from erupting. He dug his fingers into his father's shoulders as wave after wave of cold and sickness passed through him, the world greying at the edges. His last conscious thought was that it was a hell of a way to stop an argument.

_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Anon, I was just getting ready to post when I got your email - it gave me such a chuckle. I am running a little behind schedule this week due to a job that involves travel, and this chapter is fairly quiet and short, so I apologize for that. I'll try to get the next up more quickly. Have your people talk to my people. __ To everybody else, thank you so much for reading along. I promise to make Don better. By and by. _

**Chapter 11**

_Waterloo_

"You'll be glad to know your aim's as good as ever. How's that now? Better?"

Don reached up to touch the washcloth draped over his eyes. He swallowed cautiously. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. It was about time to change those sheets anyway, the way you're sweating."

"Still." There was something pathetic about a grown man who couldn't make it to a more sanitary place to throw up. Another reason he'd just as soon do this stuff alone and unobserved.

"Never mind." He felt a firm hand squeeze his knee. "I chose a bad time to pick a fight. Just as well you keep a few clean things here. Here - rinse out your mouth."

Don held out a hand, curved it around the sports bottle. Those were a good idea - no spills. Why hadn't he thought of that? He thumbed the spout and directed it cautiously toward his mouth, then paused. Was he really ready for this?

"Go ahead - I'm prepared this time. Basin at the ready."

_Maybe. But I'm not so sure I am. _He felt like he had been turned inside out, then wrung dry and left for dead: drained, dizzy and depleted. Lifting the sports bottle was like trying to bench press his own weight. Which, he thought mournfully, was something he could actually do and no big thing before this.

"Come on - you'll get dehydrated. If it makes you feel better, you can throw up all over me again. Kind of a time-honored tradition. Could never figure out why that was my special privilege - don't think you ever did it to your mother."

"I didn't do that." He paused, lowered the bottle. "Did I do that?"

"Without fail. Drink."

Don peeled back the washcloth to get a look at him. "Really? When I was little?"

Alan scoffed. "Little, nothing. Remember that winter in High School when you broke your arm playing hockey and needed surgery? You did it then."

The bottle wavered, then came to rest on the sheets. "I don't remember that."

"Well, you were just coming out of anesthesia, so it's no wonder. I don't think you had a very good grip on things at the time."

"Did you ever think about learning to - you know - duck?"

"Sounds easy, doesn't it? But that would mean risking leaving you to pitch over on your face. You never were one to do things by halves." The familiar knuckles pressed up against his cheek, gauging. "Come on - get some of that down. You lost a lot of fluids. Charlie could probably calculate for you exactly how much."

_Charlie. _"Scared him away - huh?"

"Not at all. He's busy with the laundry at the moment."

_Laundry. Laundry? Oh, man_… "Dad!" he groaned. "Not - ?"

"Well, we certainly couldn't leave those sheets sitting around. Don't worry - he's wearing gloves and adding plenty of Clorox."

"Harsh."

"I'm sure he was eager to be useful."

_Yeah. I'll bet. _Don tried to study his father's expression through the goo swimming across his vision. _Possible. _But it was hard to tell with Dad. He had a sneaky way of turning seemingly mundane tasks into object lessons. If he survived this thing, Charlie was going to kill him.

"Come on. Just a swallow."

He tried aiming the sports bottle again, felt the spout bump his lip and sipped tentatively at it, then waited. There was no warning roil from his stomach – not that that accounted for potential delayed reaction, but…he tried another sip. He really was parched. He lowered the bottle and closed his eyes. "I hate being sick," he muttered. It took him a second to realize he'd said it out loud and he flushed. It sounded so ungrateful.

"So I've noticed. Believe it or not, my son, few people embrace the idea."

"No wonder." He coughed to clear his throat of the lingering burn of illness. It caught in his chest and he coughed again.

"On the other hand, not everybody sees it as a personal failure to be denied or overcome at all costs, either."

"I don't – " _Okay. Maybe there was some truth in that. _"I - it didn't seem like such a big deal. Really. You know – just – some downtime."

"This is _after_ the doctor told you it was pneumonia?"

Don sighed, then coughed and wished he could remember not to do that. "HE didn't make it sound like a big deal. And I'm used to taking care of myself."

There was a long pause, and Don tried applying the washcloth to clear his blurry vision when Alan said, "Do you remember when you had tonsillitis?"

_Okay…maybe this wasn't a total non-sequitor and it was going somewhere_. He blotted at his eyes. "Kind of. I remember I missed three Little League games and Charlie kept asking why he couldn't have just Popsicles and ice cream too, and then after all that, they didn't even take my tonsils out."

"You had a Little League game that night - do you remember? Charlie had a special testing scheduled and a consultation with an expert, so you went home with Jerry Wilkins, had dinner with his family and rode to Little League practice with them. Mrs. Wilkins evidently noticed that you were lethargic and looked wrong and took your temperature - tried to call us, but we were already gone. This was in the days before cell phones, of course. So Mrs. Wilkins skipped practice for you and Jerry, took you back to her place and put you to bed. We returned home to a message that you were sick, and that we should call as soon as we got in. We ended up dragging you to the emergency room that night." The hand still rested on his leg, warm and solid. "Your mother - she was mortified. Once she had you all tucked away with the old baby monitor in your room in case you wanted anything, she burst into tears. Said she sent you off to school without even noticing you were sick. Kept asking what kind of mother didn't notice that her own child was sick. I told her, maybe a very tired one. She always felt she should be able to do it all - never seemed to grasp the idea of her own physical limitations."

Don eased the washcloth away from his eyes. "There a subtle lesson buried in this little parable?"

"Was I subtle? I didn't mean to be." He could hear the smile in his father's voice. "What I could never figure out was whether that tendency was inherited, or learned through observation. Maybe both."

"It's not that simple." Don rubbed the washcloth over his neck and put it aside. "You gotta understand - I spent most of my life as an athlete, and what do they teach you? Work through the pain. Get back up when you're down. Then I joined law enforcement. What do they teach you? Suck it up. Get back up when you're down. That's a whole lot of training, Dad. It's just - automatic."

"I guess I know that. But I don't have to like it. And it gives me nagging rights."

"You needed rights for that?"

"Smart ass." Alan dimmed the light. "Think you could keep down a little ginger ale?"

Don nodded, watched the now-shadowy figure travel to the door. "She was a great Mom," he blurted. "Always. The best."

The figure paused near the door. "I guess that was my point. She was. Despite having normal, human physical limitations. Something you might want to keep in mind."

"Yeah, yeah." Don sighed again, muffled a cough. _Damn, it was hot in here. _"Tell me something I don't know."

"I'll bring you that ginger ale."

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

He steeled himself. "I - don't think I'm going to work tomorrow."

Even in the shadows, he caught the flash of a smile. "Tell me something I don't know."

_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the feedback. I love Don and Alan together too, and there's been a sad dearth of that this season. I really miss it. I miss more of the three Eppes men together, too. So I just keep writing to fill the gap for myself. This chapter is coming to you from mobile laptop and wireless, so I hope it works out._

**Chapter 12**

_Listening to the Rain_

"I've got it, I've got it…"

"Are you sure? You barely have a voice. And if you let me do it, you can go right back to sleep."

_Tempting…but…Dear Assistant Director Merrick, Donnie is sick and won't be in tomorrow. Please send his homework home with Charlie…no. No way. No. _

"I've got it," he repeated. His searching hand found the cell phone on the nightstand and flipped it open. "I should talk to Megan anyway… "

"All right. Try the ginger ale, then. I'll be right downstairs if you need anything."

"Right."

He ground his free fist in first one eye, then the other, trying to clear his vision enough to search through his contact list. The sick line was in here someplace…He found the listing and pressed the button, starting a tinny ringing in his ear. The recording came on and he spelled his last name and gave his ID and the bare bones of his situation. When the recording assured him that the message was received, he hit 'end' and felt for the speed dial number for Megan. That one he could find in his sleep. Which is probably what he did, because when the droning purr of the ring was interrupted with a human voice, he jumped awake, surprised and disoriented.

She must have looked at the ID display, because instead of 'Reeves', her voice answered, "Don?"

"Yeah. It's me. Look, Megan - "

"God, you sound awful. Did you go to the doctor?"

He counted to ten. "Yeah, I went to the doctor. That's why I'm calling. I won't be in tomorrow."

"Well, I hope not - especially if this is something you could give to the rest of us. What did the doctor say?"

"He said I - " he hesitated. _Oh, what the hell. Just say it. _"That I…have pneumonia." It was the first time he had said it out loud. It made him feel funny inside.

"_Pneumonia?_" He winced a little as Megan's voice soared on the last syllable. _Why was it people always got so melodramatic about that word?_ He could picture David's and Colby's heads popping up like gophers to listen. _Oh, wait. No. Sunday. _"I thought it was just a chest cold or something. Maybe bronchitis."

"Yeah. Me too." _Minus the bronchitis. _

"So you'll be out - what - two weeks or so, right?"

_Two WEEKS? _"No - naw - nothing like that. He thought I could - " he broke off to smother a cough. "Come back tomorrow, maybe. I'm just - " He paused to cough again. "You know - being careful."

"Uh huh." Megan's drawl sounded more skeptical even than his Dad's. "You're at Charlie's, huh?"

He tried to hitch himself up on the pillows. "What's your point?"

"My point? I was just trying to figure out who, exactly, was being careful."

Don gave up on trying to pull himself up on the pillows and slid down them instead. "You doubting me? I think that's - what - insubordination or something."

He covered the small receiver with his hand to cough again, so Megan's voice sounded far away when she said, "Hey - profiling's my game. At least I didn't laugh out loud."

"Y'know, I can get disrespect here, free of charge, no waiting - I don't need it from you." His voice scraped out in a gravelly growl.

"And here I was trying to be reassuring."

He could picture her smile and almost smiled himself. "Your bedside manner's about as lousy as my Dad's."

"Oh, now, I can't believe that - I bet you're being cared for within an inch of your life."

"Something like that." Don swallowed a yawn. "I might need you to spring me. Anyway - " He coughed. _Damn it. _"I actually wanted to talk to you about work."

"Okay. Anything in particular?"

"Well - " He coughed again. Then again: a raw, moist hack. _Damn it, what was it about the phone? _He glanced at the cheratussin bottle.

"You know, that's pretty gross."

"So I've been told." His voice evaporated on the last word, and he coughed again to get it started. _Too hot in here_.

"How about I talk, and you listen?"

_Good old Megan. _"Yeah - that would be -" Cough. _Crap. _"- good."

"Okay, let me catch you up - "

Don closed his eyes to block out the persistent stab in his forehead, newly magnified by his bout of retching, and focused on her voice instead. It had a kind of steady cadence that he had never noticed before. _Soothing_…

"Don - _Don?_"

_What? _He jumped again, his heart loud and fast in his ears, like a rush of wings. _Who…? _The voice sounded small and far away, and after one wild second where images of otherworldly creatures danced through his head, he reached up automatically to feel for a comlink. His hand brushed the smooth surface of a cell phone instead, and he pulled it away from its nest, squashed in the pillow, to squint at the number displayed. _Oh. Oh, yeah_…He cleared his throat and it turned into another string of coughs. "Yeah, Megan… " _Where'd my voice go?_

"I said, David and Colby checked out that Clemens woman. They're pretty sure she knows more than she's telling, but whatever it is, they couldn't get it out of her."

"Figures." He reached up to massage one aching temple. "What do we know about her?"

"Aside from the connection between her and Testo? Not a whole lot. I'm doing some digging. So far…"

He moved his fingers to the other temple. _Tossing your cookies could really take it out of you. _He should turn down the electric blanket too…really getting warm in here…

"_**Don?**_"

He jumped again. _Damn. Maybe it was time for another one of those nap breaks_…

"Don, did you hear what I said?"

"Um…" _Something about…okay, no_. "I think I…missed the last part. If you could just repeat…"

Silence filled the other end of the line. "Are you all right?"

_Was he? _"Yeah, yeah…just a…kinda…full day." _Well, it had been - getting here, then that whole barfing incident_…he could hear the hush of the rain pattering against the roof. It sounded nice. He had a funny feeling he might have said something about it out loud.

Another silence. "Maybe this can wait for later." _The phone. Not a comlink - his cell phone_. "Unless you had something specific you wanted to talk about?"

_Did he? _He thought he did. With a slight shiver of surprise, he realized he couldn't remember the details of a single case on his desk. Scattered, disconnected memories of old cases, maybe…at least he thought they were old cases - he could visualize the streetlight glinting off of Coop's red hair, profile silhouetted against the rugged mortar of an old building, hear Terry's crisp voice briefing him…

"Don?"

_What? Oh. Right. Megan_. He patted around vaguely until he found the phone again among the pillows and adjusted its position against his ear. "…what were you saying?" _Cough._

The silence seemed longer this time. Or maybe he had drifted off again. "Why don't I grab a couple of files I have here?" _Megan sounded…what? Kind of like she sounded when she was trying to talk somebody down_. "So we don't miss any details?"

_Yeah. Sure. Good idea. _He didn't realize Megan took work home. Guess it wasn't impossible. He did that sometimes…okay, a lot of times…

It seemed like she was gone a long time, but that was okay. He listened to the rain on the roof. It was hypnotic. Much better than being _out_ in the rain. He had been out in it earlier, hadn't he? Sure he was…he remembered now. He and Coop had been chasing that guy who murdered three court officials…found him holed up in that derelict old building…so dilapidated that even going inside didn't protect them from the rain. Much better to be in here, where it was warm. A little too warm, maybe…Coop had taken point on that one, then grinned when _he_ had been the one to end up rolling in the mud, trying to subdue the guy, because, somehow or other, whenever he was with Coop, he ended up doing all the dirty work. Terry used to love his Coop stories, used to laugh and laugh…_wait. Not Terry. Megan. That is, Terry had loved the stories, but it was Megan…_

_Listen to that rain…_

Something was prying at the phone in his hand and he tried to get his eyes open for a look. "…talking…" he protested groggily.

"Uh huh…"

Cool air dusted his palm and he realized that he'd given it up without much of a fight. _Dad was right…Amita could take him right now…wait a minute…Dad_…

"Gonna drink…right now…"

"Good idea." The soothing voice again. Then, "Thanks, Megan…"

The voice dropped and he could just make out the murmur of one-sided conversation, too muddled for words. …_conversation…? Was somebody else in the room…? _He strained to listen. _Hadn't Coop been here…? No, no, Terry…no, wait…Megan. That was right. He was talking…listen to that rain…_

Something cold in his ear and he threw his hand up to knock it away…_that had happened before, hadn't it? I mean, sheesh, buy a guy a drink first, at least_…his hand was captured and gently restrained. Embarrassingly easily, actually. Then there was that hush of conversation again, more voices this time. What was with the crowd scene? He kind of wished they'd go away and let him sleep in peace. Something was tickling the back of his brain…something he had meant to finish…

"Here. Come on. Come on, take a drink."

_Yeah. _He had meant to do that.

"Come on, Don."

He tried to peer through the slits in his heavy lids. _Charlie? Had Dad turned into Charlie? _He had always imagined Charlie might turn into Dad one day, but never the other way around…

"Come on."

The pressure at his mouth persisted and he took a sip just to get it to leave him alone, then pushed it away. "…raining…"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. Come on. A little more."

"…thought you…were Dad…" His voice sounded all wrong.

"Dad'll be back in a minute. He went to get something."

_Oh. _He remembered something and clung to it, pleased, because his thoughts seemed to be just a little jumbled right now. "…sheets…"

"What? Oh. Yeah. They're April fresh now."

"Have some…shirts…"

"What?" He was pleased when Charlie laughed. Things felt a little screwy, but they couldn't be too bad if Charlie was laughing. "What am I now, your laundry service? Tell you what, finish the whole glass and we'll talk…"

He took another sip, mostly because it was easier than fighting. Who had kicked the fight out of him? He hoped he had at least fought back a little. Like he had with the guy who killed the three court officials. _Oh, that's right_… "Coop here?"

"What's that?" Something in Charlie's tone told him that he had said the wrong thing, and he tried clumsily to backpedal.

…_Terry? No, no - that wasn't right either_…

"Here - have a little more - how many shirts are we talking about?"

_Shirts? Oh. _"Dry clean."

"Okay, but I'm not doing your shorts, no deal there. How about another sip? Dad will be back in a second."

_Okay. _He really didn't need everybody in here, just wanted a little sleep, but there was something reassuring about Charlie's presence, as long as he didn't keep turning into somebody else…_oh, yeah_… "Megan."

"Yeah. She - uh - had to go. But she'll talk to you tomorrow."

_Okay. _Well, they'd just have to get things done without him, then. He could catch up tomorrow. He should tell Charlie the story about Coop…"Charlie?"

"Yeah, bro."

That darned thing was at his mouth again, and he pushed it away. What was it he had wanted to say? _Oh, yeah. Something about… _

"Charlie…listen to the rain…"

_TBC_


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: I'm so sorry for the long delay - way too much bad travel and faulty wireless. Just had to throw up my hands at one point. And pray that my luggage and I would someday be reunited. Anyway, not much more to go. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me throughout. You've made it so much fun for me. There's a reference in Chapter 7 that ties back to this one, for those of you who like threads._

_P.S. Sorry, anon. Was honestly beyond my control. And Shrimp - I'm both a hockey and a baseball fan. _

**Chapter 13**

_The Frozen Tundra_

The felon caribou was close now - just one ice floe away - head hanging and chest heaving with exertion.

Or maybe that was him.

Never mind - either way, he could end this for both of them with just the right shot…he reached for his weapon and lifted, took careful aim…and frowned with surprise and alarm when he saw that the weapon in his hand was not his gun after all, but his cell phone. _How had…? _He reached for where his holster should be and came up empty. Nothing on his hip. What had happened to his gun? Oh, wait - hadn't he locked it up someplace? But where would he leave a gun on the frozen tundra, especially when he was in hot pursuit?

Well, he certainly couldn't subdue the caribou with a cell phone, but he could call for back up…he punched a button and pressed the cell phone against his ear. Nothing. He felt a faint frisson of panic, pulling the cell phone close to check the display for bars, squinting hard to block out the icy arctic air. Still nothing. He was on his own. He would have to bring this one in himself. At least the caribou was only armed with his teeth and hooves and…what was he wanted for again? He should check with Coop. Wherever he had gotten off to. Never around when you really needed…he clutched the cell phone too tightly and it squeezed from his frigid grip and bounced across the ice floe. The caribou lifted its head in alarm, ears twitching, turned with a bound and jumped, hooves scrabbling at the ice.

Without thinking, he leapt after it. His boot caught on the edge of the next ice floe, scraping against the rim, and he slipped, flailed his arms for balance, lost his footing anyway and slid down the sharp edge, shoes filling with water so cold that it sucked every scrap of air from his lungs. He flailed at the slick, wet surface of the floe, grappling for purchase, but he couldn't catch a hold and the chill dead weight soaking into his clothes drew him inexorably downward, into the black water, swallowing him. His chin cracked against the frozen, jagged edge, setting off a claxon in his ears and blackening his vision. Ice water lapped at his ear canals and snow filled his mouth. He tried to breathe around it, his throat a column of ice, clawed at the snow, desperately starved for air…

"Ho, ho - easy, now - easy - "

He coughed, felt water and ice spill from his mouth, kept on coughing.

"Okay, okay - easy - here - "

Something else in his mouth now - something warm and pungent that burned faintly, cutting through the ice, then something new was blotting at his lip and he reached for it, trying to grab hold and pull himself up.

"All right, all right - here we go - just settle down…"

Now the something was wiping his hands, dabbing at his wrists, and he relaxed his grip. Okay, he was pretty sure this wasn't the caribou. He should open his eyes and take a look. Yup, any minute now, he was going to do that.

When his eyes stayed glued shut, he sipped a tentative breath instead. The column of ice had vacated his throat, but his tongue and the roof of his mouth were still frozen - he could feel the air he took in warm and condense against them, his teeth knocking against each other. Something poked at his ear and he turned his head away with a hoarse protest, bringing his hand up to cover the tender feature.

"Don't start this again. It'll only take a second."

He tried to scrunch down further, but the object followed him, fingers prying at his own.

"Come on, it's this or the lollipop thing."

That penetrated his haze and he stopped, trying to get a grip on the wisp of a thought.

"Dad." It came out as a whisper.

"Well, that's a little better already. Come on - let go - I want to get a reading."

He let go automatically, less out of obedience than because he wanted to focus on organizing the jumble of pictures in his brain into some kind of sense. He managed to pry his eyelids semi-apart. The room swam before him, unfamiliar at first - _not his _- _wait, yes, his_ - _his at Mom's and Dad's…no, no baseball trophies…Charlie's_. _His at Charlie's_. He let out a breath of relief that skated over his chilled throat and forced a cough. The tug in his chest made him wince. Why was his mouth so cold…?

"…ate snow…?" With the caribou, but now he was beginning to suspect…

"Crushed ice. We've been spooning it into you most of the night. Have a little of this…"

"…night…?" _Okay, that did not compute_. He struggled to find his most current memory, minus the caribou. Nothing came clear. The spout of a sports bottle poked at his teeth and he swallowed reflexively, then gagged, coughing to clear his throat and resting a hand over his mouth. _What the hell…? _

"Trying to…poison me…?" He coughed again, rubbed at the liquid that stuck to his fingers after touching his lip, then let the hand drop. "What IS that stuff…?" _Megan was right, his voice sounded awful…wait…wait…Megan_…

"Pedialyte. I'm told it isn't tasty."

_There was an understatement. _"Gross."

"Yes, that's actually what I'm told…though if you pour it over the ice and make a slushy, you seemed to keep it down all right." The voice sounded distracted, then, "That looks a little better."

_Whatever you say_. He got a hand as far as his forehead, tried to rub away the thundering behind his eyes.

"Headache?"

"One…bad…hangover…" He closed his eyes tight. Everything hurt, now that he had a second to reflect on it, with a hot, tired ache. Maybe the caribou had trampled him.

"I'll find out if I can give you something without interfering with the rest of your medications."

_Medications. _"Night…?" He repeated vaguely.

"You had a rough one."

Something in his father's voice told him that he wasn't the only one who had had a rough one and he gave propping his eyes open another try. They stayed at half-mast for a minute and he crinkled them for a glimpse of his father's face. _Unshaven…unkempt_… "Did you… go to bed?"

"I was a little busy. Want a little more ice?"

He shook his head, rubbed his hands roughly over his face. His stomach lining even felt chilled. "…pedialyte…?" _Wasn't that…?_

"You got a little dehydrated, is all, and your fever got a little high. I was on the brink of taking you somewhere where they could slap an IV in you. I'm still not sure it isn't a good idea."

He made a face. No wonder he felt like an army of vampires had been feasting on him all night. The fuzz at the edges of his brain retreated a smidge. He dropped his hands. "…Charlie was here…"

"That's right. You informed him that it almost never rained in Albuquerque and that you missed it. Whether you meant that you missed the rain while in Albuquerque, or you missed Albuquerque while you're here, remains a mystery."

_Oh. Both, maybe._

"He's getting a little sleep now."

_He stayed up all night too? Great. _"You should go to bed." He coughed, rubbed distractedly at a sharp jab in his chest.

"I can't - I'm expecting a visitor."

_Visitor? What time was it, anyway? Where was a guy's watch when he needed it? _He started to glance around, but moving his head hurt and he stopped. He tried to interpret the light, but the shades were drawn. He listened for the rustle of the rain, couldn't make it out, shifted carefully under the covers. "…so tired…" he confessed, before he could stop himself.

"I'm not surprised."

The dampness was dabbing at his face. It seemed to soothe the simmer of heat that hovered just under his skin. He was surprised to find that his eyes were closed again, but he reached up anyway and wrapped his hand around the one holding the cloth. "Don't. Go to bed."

"I told you – I have a guest coming."

_Oh. Right._ Dad probably had plans before he'd crashed the party…"Go on…'mokay…just gonna…sleep…"

"You've got it all under control, hm?"

Okay, that sounded a little…was he in trouble? Looked like he was going to be the next one up for washing sheets…He struggled with his eyelids once more, blinked to bring his father into focus. It didn't tell him much – his perceptions seemed to be a little off. _Okay, way off…_

"'Mokay…" he insisted again, more cautiously.

His father snorted a laugh and then sighed, and he relaxed a little. "All right. We've both had a long night. We'll talk about this another time. When I'm sure you aren't going to remember me as a caribou."

_Whoops_. "Said that, huh?"

"Mm."

As long as he had a moment of grace…"…Wasn't Megan here…?" he ventured.

"On the telephone. You evidently started wandering, and when you called her Coop, she phoned me on the landline to suggest I check on you. I called her this morning to let her know you were still with us."

_Ouch._ That should make for some interesting early morning coffee chat at the Bureau. What exactly had he said, anyway?

"Then you freaked your brother out by calling him Terry – I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted that I'm the one who ended up as a caribou. What's that all about?"

_Yeah, that would be a lulu to explain_… "Just…random. Dreaming, I think."

"Well, you always were a creative kid."

_Haven't been a kid for a long time, Dad_…he realized he was still clinging to the hand holding the washcloth and gave it a faint squeeze before letting go. "Fine. Really." He coughed, massaged automatically at the sharp pinch under his skin. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah, you're swell." The back of a hand rested against his cheek for a minute, then dropped and patted his shoulder. A bell sounded faintly from downstairs and Don felt the mattress dip, then rebound. "All right, hard case – rest your eyes while I get the door. I'll be back."

Don was already resting more than his eyes, turning to find a more comfortable position. It seemed like it was only moments later that someone was gently jogging his shoulder.

"Donnie?"

Was it time to get up already? Didn't he just go to sleep?

"Donnie, I have someone here I want you to meet."

_Meet?_ Don scratched absently at the stubble on his cheek and slitted his eyes. _Meet? Was he kidding? _He knew Dad was really big on manners and everything, but maybe his guest wouldn't be too enchanted to have somebody hack all over them? And he was pretty sure he could use a shower…

"Don, this is Charlotte Gibbs. She and I belong to the same golf club. Charlotte, my son, Don. Thanks for stopping by."

Don blotted at his eyes with the heel of his hand and tried to remember all the appropriate charm stuff for moments like these. Somehow, it had all deserted him. Who was this woman, anyway? Was Dad dating someone besides Millie?

"Hello, Don. I feel like we've already met."

Don managed to sharpen the outlines of the blur in the doorway and caught a glimpse of her left hand. _OH. Oh, come on, Dad_…his groping hand found his father's arm and he tugged him closer.

"Dad, I already have a doctor," he hissed.

"We're talking about the genius who was going to send you off to work today?"

"He said…he said probably, I think…"

"Whatever he said, I'd like a second opinion. From a real doctor."

"He _was_ a real doctor. Had a white coat and prescription pad…all that stuff."

"Then I'd like a second opinion from one old enough to have a driver's license. I called Charlotte last night when I was trying to decide whether or not to cart you off to the Emergency Room. She was very helpful. The least you can do is let her take a look at you now."

Funny how Dad could manage to make everything sound like an infraction of good manners. And exactly how many people knew that he had gone a little off the rails last night, anyway? He realized that Dr. Gibbs was still standing in the doorway, probably privy to everything they were saying, and felt himself flush. Forget the sheets – he knew what his object lesson was. He raised his voice, winced when it cracked. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Gibbs. It is doctor, right?"

"That's right." The doctor came further into the room and set her bag down on a nearby chair. "If your deductive reasoning skills are still online you must be feeling better."

"Oh, he is – I can always tell when he starts fighting back."

Don wanted to level his father with a glare, but his eyes just wouldn't cooperate.

"Why don't you give us a little privacy, Alan? I'll call you in as soon as we're done."

_Well, that was something, anyway. _But didn't he get any say in this? He was long past the age of consent, after all. He glanced over at his father and knew that he didn't. He owed him that much. "Yeah – go on, Dad. You can trust me alone, even with a pretty woman."

"If he's flirting, I'd say he's feeling _much_ better…" Dr. Gibbs was rummaging around in her bag, lifted out a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope.

"I wouldn't be so sure. I think he does that in his sleep." Don knew there was a good smart answer to that somewhere, but darned if he could come up with it. "All right, if you're sure you don't need a nurse. If he gets out of line, ask him to tell you about the caribou."

"Caribou?"

Don closed his eyes and gave himself up to it. _Yeah, great._ He had a feeling he was going to be living this one down for some time to come.

_TBC_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I do apologize - I hate to do that mid-story. But it seemed every time I even got near the computer, something happened to drag me away. Sorry, anon, you've been very patient. There should be no further interruptions to our regularly scheduled story. Thanks so much - C._

**Chapter 14**

_Doctor, Doctor - Give Me the News_

"You don't have to do this." He watched the door snick shut behind his father, then turned his head enough to see Dr. Gibbs untangling the blood pressure cuff. Actually, if she had something for his headache, that wouldn't be all bad…

"Sure I do." She opened a small plastic sleeve and pulled out a digital thermometer. "I took an oath and everything. My job's a lot like yours - I'm legally bound to offer succor where needed, 24/7."

_Sucker? True enough, but no need to rub it in. _

_Oh wait – maybe she meant succor? Well, either way, it wasn't far from the truth._

"You must have real patients. A practice and stuff."

"You look like a real patient." The wand slid under his tongue. He was getting kind of tired of that, but it was still a little better than that thing in his ear. "And I'm semi-retired."

Realization filtered through his slow-moving brain and he mumbled around the thermometer, "You know what I do?"

Cool fingers pressed against his wrist and Dr. Gibbs glanced at her watch. Something about the gesture reminded him of his job. "I've been hearing about you and your brother for years. Don't talk until that thing beeps."

"Years?"

Dr. Gibbs released his wrist and scratched something on a pad before giving him a disapproving glance. "And to think I heard you weren't the chatty son." The thermometer beeped and she drew it out, wrote something else on her pad.

"I just like – you know – information." He rubbed impatiently at a hitch in his chest. "Don't I get to see those?"

This time Dr. Gibbs smiled. "Will they mean anything to you?" She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

_Okay, so I just feel silly lying here in bed while a strange woman writes down a lot of stuff about me_. He winced a little at the squeeze of the blood pressure cuff and decided on a change of subject. "Look, I appreciate you helping my dad last night – he – y'know – he gets all worked up."

She chuckled. "About nothing, hm?" She watched the readings and added them to the others, then leaned forward to feel under his chin, on either side of his jaw.

He closed his eyes to hide a flinch. "No – I mean, I guess I was kinda out of it…"

"So I hear. Caribou, hm?"

"It was a _dream_." He considered going into details, decided that wouldn't help and diverted the subject. "It's better now, right?"

"Depends on what you mean by better." She let go of his throat and picked up a stethoscope. "Let's hear what your chest sounds like. You can leave your top on."

_Well, at least that would bypass the whole cold stethoscope thing…_

"Can you cough for me?"

_She was kidding, right?_ Coughing was about all he did. Stopping was the hard part. He coughed obediently, made a face at the grotesque noise.

She offered no comment other than, "Lean forward."

Yeah, that sounded easier than it was. He pulled his knees up and braced his elbows against them to steady himself as the stethoscope started its methodical journey over his back, followed by a brisk tapping with her fingers.

"Okay, you can lean back." She wrote something else down and folded the stethoscope. "You know, you have crackles in both lungs."

He swallowed to rewet his throat. _Funny how tiring this could be. _"Dr. Rodriguez said something like that."

"You had x-rays taken?"

"Yeah."

"Sputum test?"

He stared.

"Then probably not. Who's your regular physician?"

He shrugged. "I use the FBI Medical Team, mostly. Emergency Room, sometimes."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "No regular physician," she said aloud as she wrote. "If you give me permission, I wouldn't mind taking a look at your x-rays. You'll need a follow up set in two weeks, by the way. Did he tell you?"

_ANOTHER set? _"No," he admitted reluctantly, feeling a little as though he had opened poor Dr. Rodriguez up to scorn.

"We need the follow up to be sure all the infection is gone before you return to work."

_Wait a minute, wait a minute - back up_. He coughed to find his voice. "_What_ did you say?"

"You should have a follow up x-ray before you return to work - two weeks is customary."

"But - Dr. Rodriguez - " He broke off abruptly. Okay, maybe he didn't need one more person laughing at him about that. And despite the fact that she wasn't laughing openly, he got the distinct impression that Dr. Gibbs found him even funnier than his father did. He sucked in a careful breath and tried to look healthy and vigorous. "I mean, I'm in good shape. It's part of my job. Doesn't it make sense - " He was betrayed by a machine gun stutter of coughing, had to pause again to find his breath. Dr. Gibbs handed him a sports bottle, and he wiped at his tearing eyes to make sure it was water and not Pedialyte before taking a sip. _Damn. Okay, okay - a setback, but not a total loss. _He took another sip and cleared his throat, swore inwardly when that set off a new round of hacking. This time, that damn kiddie syrup dispenser danced before his eyes and he latched onto it like a drowning man and swallowed.

He closed his eyes this time to regroup, since the coughing tended to leave him a little - just a _little_ - dizzy, and he was keen to demonstrate that he had this thing on the run. When he thought he could manage a sentence without doing a Camille imitation, he tried again. "I guess what I'm trying to say - " He paused to head any recalcitrant coughs lingering in his chest cavity off at the pass - " - is that, if two weeks is customary," _Okay, another pause here might be wise_… "Well, it should be shorter for somebody who's reasonably young and healthy, right? I mean, usually?" He took another gulp of water.

Dr. Gibbs nodded gravely. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

_Okay, that was not an answer. _"But…?"

She smiled. "There are a lot of other factors. Severity, for example."

"Can't be that bad. I'm not in the hospital or anything."

"No. Not yet."

His heart did a funny skip in his chest and lowered the sports bottle. "I'm gonna wanna hear a little more about that. You mean I could be?"

"Nearly were last night."

He scrubbed at his eyes again so he could see her more clearly, studied her face. "For real?"

"For real. But your temperature finally started dropping, and no one was eager to move you unless absolutely necessary. Especially in the rain."

Yeah, okay, he did remember something about the rain…he picked at the comforter, suddenly cold, trying to digest that. "So…you're saying…"

"I'm saying, why don't we wait and see?"

Don blew his breath out carefully, winced when it snagged on a small cough. _Waiting_. Not his best thing. And - _two weeks?_ "What am I going to do for two weeks?" he asked the ceiling.

She gave his forearm a quick pat. "If you're like most people with pneumonia? Precious little." He made a face and she started tucking instruments back into her bag. "Come on - be honest - you're ready for a nap, right?" He gave her a sideways glance, then a reluctant smile. "That's what I thought." She stood up. "I'll leave instructions with your father. Do us all a favor and try to follow them, okay?"

"Yeah. Sure." Where did people get these ideas about him? "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Your father and I worked out a deal."

"Uh uh - no way. Anyway, I'm a government employee. If nothing else, we have kick-ass insurance."

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Sorry - but your father offered me a very attractive handicap the next time we play golf. It may not be very sporting, but it's probably the only way I'll ever beat him. You're not going to mess that up for me, are you?"

"No." He laughed, stopped abruptly when the laughter bottle-necked the air in his chest and nearly choked him. "I know how you feel."

"I'm going to call your father back in so you both hear the same thing, okay? That is – I assume you'll be staying here?"

_For TWO WEEKS?_ He scrubbed his hands over his face again. _Man, this sucked_. "For a couple of days anyway, I guess. I don't need somebody around the whole time, right?"

Dr. Gibbs gave him a look he had trouble reading and he reflected ruefully that she'd be killer in the interrogation room. "You at least need someone to look in on you regularly. The hospital is always an option too, if that's not possible, but somehow I can't picture Alan ordering you out into the rain."

Don started to point out that it wasn't his father's house, but that would seem to imply that Charlie _would_ kick his ailing brother out into the rain, and as entertaining as Charlie's subsequent outrage at that insinuation would be, he really wasn't well enough to fully enjoy it. Besides, he wasn't entirely positive that Charlie _couldn't_ take him right now. Better safe than sorry.

He found his energy – or what passed for it – was flagging and he edged back into the pillows. _Give it up, Eppes. Even the refrigerator outmanned you on this one_. "Guess it's really up to them. I can do the hospital thing if I have to." _Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that._

Dr. Gibbs shook her head and went to the door, easing it just far enough open to stick her head out, then pulled her head back in with another shake. "Alan. What a coincidence that you should happen to be there at just this moment."

Don tried to decide if she was being sarcastic or not.

Alan gave a guilty smile as he stepped over the threshold. "We Eppes men are famous for our timing. So, Charlotte, what's the verdict?"

"I want him to have another x-ray in two weeks before we decide if he's ready to return to work. And I know he wants to go back to sleep, but I'd like him to eat something first. If anything comes back up, let me know and I'll give him a shot – he needs the antibiotic consistently in his system. I also would prefer he doesn't stay on his own for a week, at least. I can check on him here again, or he can stay in the hospital – unless you have something else in mind, Don?"

Oh, hey – almost like I'm in the room too, Don thought dryly. He glanced at his father. "I can always check into a hospital, Dad. I'm covered."

The look his father shot him he had no trouble reading at all. "You should be so lucky as to get off that easy. I'm sure we can all survive being under the same roof for a couple of weeks. What else?"

"Bed rest, mostly. Don't worry - he won't feel up to much else."

Don frowned. Everybody seemed to think they had a better take on him than he had on himself.

"Lots of fluids - again, if he has trouble keeping them down, I want to know immediately. I'll look in on him before our golf game next week."

_Next week. _He rubbed again at the growing throb behind his eyes. Okay, he could deal with a week - especially if he slept through most of it. _But two weeks? No way. _He'd be okay long before that. _Okay enough, anyway._

"Thank you, Charlotte, for everything. For last night and today…coming back next week really is above and beyond the call of duty."

Don looked up to thank her as well and noticed she was watching him. Something about her expression gave him an uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

If she did, her smile gave no clue. "Nonsense. I wouldn't miss it. I haven't even heard about the caribou yet."

As his father ushered her out the door with an offer of a cup of tea, Don tried to smile back, since giving into the urge to pull the pillow over his head and disappear would only interfere with his already compromised breathing. He lifted a hand in farewell, then dropped it abruptly in surprise, blinking and unsure of his vision.

_Huh._ If he didn't know better…he would almost swear that she had winked at him.

_TBC_

_PS Yeah, I know - no hospital. I just do that so much (and probably will again), that I really needed not to this time. And most pneumonia patients do recover at home. _


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Back on track now, I think. Thanks for hanging in there with me. We're on the wind down now._

Chapter 15

_Weird Science_

"_'Pneumonia is an inflammation of the lung caused by infection with bacteria, viruses, and other organisms.'_"

Don pointed the remote at the television, paging rapidly from program to program. _Soap opera, game show, talk show_… "Yeah, okay, Charlie, thanks - I get it." He paused to cough.

"_'Pneumonia,'_" Charlie continued, unheeding, reading meticulously from the laptop screen in front of him, "_'is often a complication of a pre-existing condition/infection and triggered when a patient's defense system is weakened, most often by a simple viral upper respiratory tract infection or a case of influenza, especially in the elderly.' _Hm." He looked up at that. "The elderly. That's interesting."

"Shut up." _Another game show, more soap operas, another talk show_… "Or I'll show you elderly."

"I'm just reading, bro. Facts are neutral."

"Yeah? I'm guessing these facts are selective." _Cartoon, rerun, weather…_

"_'Pneumonia affects the lungs in different ways,' _" Charlie continued relentlessly. "_'Lobar pneumonia affects a lobe of the lungs, and bronchial pneumonia can affect patches throughout both lungs.'_" He paused and looked up. "What kind do you have?"

_Exercise show, another rerun, kiddie show_…Don shrugged. "Lobar, I think he said."

Charlie nodded. "_'Together, pneumonia and influenza represented a cost to the U.S. economy in 2004 of $37.5 billion, $5.6 billion due to indirect mortality costs and $31.9 billion in direct costs.' _" Charlie cleared his throat to be sure Don was paying attention. "That's 37.5 BILLION dollars. Wow, you're expensive."

_Infomercial, cooking show_… "Yeah? Hope nobody expects to collect anything like that from me." Cough. _Damn that._

Charlie snorted, scrolling down the screen. "_'Pneumonia and influenza together are ranked as the seventh leading cause of death in the United States' _- see? Seventh! _'Pneumonia consistently accounts for the overwhelming majority of deaths between the two.' _See? Huh? I told you! _'In 2003, __**63,241 **__people died of pneumonia.' _That's sixty-three thousand, two hundred and forty-one!" Lacking a board and chalk, Charlie pantomimed the number in distinct, swooping arcs in the air.

"Uh huh." _Home improvement show, girl talk show_… "How about unexplained, accidental deaths of younger brothers? How many deaths does that account for?"

"That would be a different search," Charlie explained with dignity, eyes still on the screen. "_'Streptococcus pneumoniae or pneumococcal pneumonia is the most common cause of bacterial pneumonia acquired outside of hospitals. The bacteria can multiply and cause serious damage to healthy individual lungs' _- well, that's - that's not good - _'or bloodstream (bacteremia)' _- how would you recognize that? _'and brain (meningitis)' _- no worries there - you have to have one first - " He ducked as Don lobbed a Kleenex box at him. "_'…and other parts of the body, especially when the body's defenses are weakened. Pneumococcal pneumonia accounts for 25 to 35 percent of all community-acquired pneumonia, and an estimated 40,000 deaths yearly.'_"

Don looked up from his focus on the television screen. "Community acquired pneumonia. That's what he said I have."

"40,000 deaths yearly. Wow."

"I am _not_ - would you guys get off that? I am not even close to dying." _Back to the soaps…another game show_… "I'm not saying it didn't sound good a couple of times - " He held up an arm to protect himself as the Kleenex box flew back in his direction, ricocheted off his triceps, then dropped on the bed next to him. _Good. Didn't do to be without those for too long. _

"Well, let's check back and see what they have to say about that, shall we?"

_The lecture tone. Swell._

"_'The onset of bacterial pneumonia can vary from gradual to sudden. In most severe cases, the patient may experience shaking/chills, chattering teeth, severe chest pains, sweats, cough that produces rust colored or greenish mucus, increased breathing and pulse rate, and bluish colored lips or nails due to lack of oxygen.'_"

Don's thumb paused on the remote. _Okay, that all sounded pretty familiar. At least_…he shot a surreptitious glance at his nails. _They were the usual color, weren't they? More or less? They might be a little…well, it was probably the light in here anyway. _He let the television linger on an old cop show. _It was always kinda fun to pick these apart. On the other hand, laughing had proved to be a deadly exercise_. He shimmied a little deeper under the covers.

"Are you cold?"

"What?" He could have sworn Charlie was absorbed in that darned laptop.

"Cold. Do you need more blankets?"

"We have more blankets than this? Doesn't seem possible."

"Funny. We have plenty. Do you need one?"

Don made a face. "Naw - it's - I'm fine." The silence was almost as rich with unspoken meaning as one of Dad's. Don fiddled with the remote. "I mean, I'm not cold. I have plenty of blankets."

"Okay." Charlie tapped a key on the computer. "Ah. Here we go. _'If you have pneumonia'_," he continued, unabated, "_'you may be working hard to breathe, or may be breathing fast. Crackles are heard when listening to your chest with a stethoscope. Other abnormal breathing sounds may also be heard through the stethoscope or via percussion (tapping on your chest wall).'_"

_Crackles. _Yeah, he remembered those. Don yawned. "Don't you have young minds to elevate or something?"

"No classes today. And I canceled office hours."

Don realized that his eyes had closed and opened them to peer at Charlie. "You canceled office hours? How come?"

"I thought we could use some brotherly bonding over fun facts about pneumonia."

"You canceled office hours to stay home and torture me?"

"That's another way to put it. Ah, look - here's another one…_'Many people can be treated at home with antibiotics. You can take these steps at home: Drink plenty of fluids to help loosen secretions and bring up phlegm.'_" Charlie glanced at the table pulled close to the bed. "You need your drink refreshed?"

Don rolled onto his side. "Naw, I'm good."

_And there it was - the silence of a thousand thoughts again. How did they do that, anyway?_ He took his best current version of a deep breath and slid onto his back to look at Charlie. "By 'good', I mean that I have plenty of beverage. And blankets. Hydrated and warm, that's me."

"It works better if you actually drink the drink."

"I am. I mean, I did. Charlie, I'm not a camel - I can't drink every second." Cough. _Crap._

"Optimum intake is eight ounces every hour."

Don eyed him suspiciously. "You're gonna tell me how I stack up to that, aren't you?"

"If you drank another eight ounces, I wouldn't have to."

_Oh, for _- Don fumbled until his hand found the sports bottle. "Okay?"

Charlie nodded his satisfaction. "_'Get lots of rest," _he read cheerfully. _"Have someone else do household chores.'_" He looked up again, deeply thoughtful this time. "Boy, that sounds like really good advice, huh?"

"Shut up." Don felt around for his tissue box.

Charlie smiled. "_'There were an estimated 678,000 hospital discharges in males (47.7 per 10,000) and 715,000 discharges in females (48.5 per 10,000) all attributable to pneumonia in 2003...' _Did you finish your toast?"

"Huh?" Don started, realized that somehow the television had stopped on some woman hawking handbags, and felt for the channel button.

"Toast. You didn't finish your toast."

"I'm saving it for later."

"I'm sure you could have more later."

"I'm not hungry right now, okay?"

_Another one of those pauses_…"It says here that loss of appetite is one of the symptoms."

"Yeah, well, watching it all come back up a couple of times will do that to you."

_Even longer pause_... "It says here that fruit juices and vegetable juices will provide important nutrition if solid foods don't appeal."

"They wouldn't say that if they'd seen the aftermath of the orange juice. I may never drink it again." Where the heck did his remote go? Ah…here it was…let's see…_Discovery channel…some kind of craft show…Daytime television. Enough reason to get back to work right there_…Cough.

"Says here that frequent coughing will help you get better faster."

"Yeah? Then I should be better by tomorrow." _What's that…the farm report? Nother rerun…_

"This is interesting – it says that boys are more often affected by pneumonia than girls. Guess that makes it a manly illness."

"I was just thinking how manly it made me feel. Just like Little Nell in _The Old Curiosity Shop_." _Not a single sport on television? Anywhere?_ Maybe he should try to make it downstairs, where there was ESPN. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie's head bob up.

"You read _The Old Curiosity Shop_?"

"I do read, Charlie." _Another soap…how do people tell them apart, anyway?_

"So who's Little Nell?"

"You didn't read it? I thought I was supposed to be the Philistine in the family. She – " he gestured vaguely with the remote. "Wanders through the rain coughing…because her uncle gambles everything away. Or maybe it was her father. Anyway, she dies." …_back to the purse lady_… "It was pretty sad, actually."

"Did you cry?"

Don felt around for the Kleenex box to throw, but Charlie was quicker and snatched it away.

"Uh uh. You're supposed to be resting. Nothing strenuous. It says here… '_Rest in bed until body core temperature returns to normal (98.6 degrees F or 37 degrees C) and chest pains and breathing problems are gone. Drink six to eight glasses of liquids daily to help keep mucous thin and easy to cough up.' _See? I told you about the liquids. Okay, here we go – _Community Acquired Pneumonia, Known Facts and Debated Propositions_…this should be interesting…"

Don surreptitiously pointed the remote at Charlie and pushed. When he was about twelve, he had gotten the brilliant inspiration to try to use the remote to turn off Charlie. He had reasoned that it did such a good job at turning off the television, that it just might shut off Charlie's chatter too. It hadn't actually worked back then, but technology had come a long way since…

"_'If the cause is bacterial, the goal is to cure the infection with antibiotics. If the cause is viral, typical antibiotics will NOT be effective, however sometimes your doctor may use antiviral medication. In some cases it is difficult to distinguish between viral and bacterial pneumonia, so antibiotics may be prescribed…'_"

_Darn. Looked like that still wasn't going to work. _At least no one had seen him this time. Last time, his mom had caught him at it and demanded to know what he was doing. Shamefacedly, he had confessed to his attempts to shut off, or at least mute, Charlie. His mother's mouth had worked strangely, then she had wordlessly held out one hand for the remote and marched rapidly away, her back stiff. Don had watched her go nervously. No yelling, no punishment, not even a talking to? That meant it was probably going to be held off for his father's judgment - that was never good.

At dinner he had looked from his father to his mother, waiting for her to turn him in, but it never came up in the conversation. That was even worse. Waiting until he and Charlie were in bed to discuss stuff meant it was really serious. Anxious, he had helped clear the table without fussing, taken out the garbage without being asked, and brushed his teeth and gone to bed two minutes before the prescribed time. Then he had lain in the dark and stared at the ceiling. Finally, he couldn't stand it any more and crawled down the hall and sat outside his parents' door to listen. He knew he'd be in even worse trouble if he was caught, but he couldn't help himself - he had to know what his punishment would be.

He could just make out his mother's low voice, but not her tone. He thought he heard his name, then jumped at his father's sudden shout of laughter.

_Alan, sshhhh…you'll wake the boys!_ Mom, this time.

By now he could tell that she was laughing too. He was relieved and nettled at the same time - relieved to not be in trouble, but a little irritated to be laughed at. His science experiment may not have been as clever as one of Charlie's, but it had made sense to him. As he crept back down the hall he'd heard his father add, _So - did it work?_

"_'Possible complications of pneumococcal pneumonia' _- this should be good.

_'In about 30 percent of people with pneumococcal pneumonia, the bacteria invade the blood stream from the lungs. This causes bacteremia, a very serious complication of pneumococcal pneumonia that also can cause other lung problems and certain heart problems…'_"

_Nope, Dad, still doesn't work. _He tried the button one more time. _Oh well. _He shifted until he could see the television again, reapplying the remote there instead. _Okay…let's see…cooking show…another talk show…what was it with all this sitting around and talking anyway?_ The fascination escaped him.

"…_'Pneumonia can be a serious and life-threatening infection.' _See? I told you. _'This is true especially in the elderly, children, and those that have other serious medical problems, such as COPD…'_"

_Dr. Phil. _That was the last thing he needed - more doctors…He curled a little deeper into the covers. Actually, he was a little cold. Not that he could admit to that now…

"_'Fortunately, with the discovery of many potent antibiotics, most cases of pneumonia can be successfully treated. In fact, pneumonia can usually be treated with oral antibiotics without the need for hospitalization'_…Don…?"

Charlie seemed quieter. Maybe the remote had worked after all. Or maybe he couldn't hear right over that buzzing in his ears_… _He felt a gentle tug at the square of plastic in his hand.

"'M'using that…" he muttered.

"Uh huh." Charlie's voice sounded hushed. "…_'Adequate rest is important to maintain progress toward full recovery and to avoid relapse…'_" The reading was softer too, more drawn out. "_'Remember, don't rush recovery…' _That one will be like talking to trees…" The voice sounded very close now. He felt another tug on the remote and retracted it under the covers. "Okay, okay…I get it." The landscape behind his eyelids darkened mysteriously. "…sleep tight, Don.…and when you wake up? We can have more fun exploring the causal relationship between bread and mold…"

_Sleep. _Don grimaced inwardly as, despite his best efforts, the world seemed to slide away from him. _Darn. _

Worse, he had a sneaking feeling that Charlie's science experiment had trumped his once again.

_TBC_


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: I just saw the date and realized that it's later than I thought…blame my boss who, since I'm going away for Christmas, just realized she'd like about a year's worth of work done in a couple of weeks. I need Larry to explain to her about the time/space continuum. _

_Glad you enjoyed Don and Charlie. I enjoy writing sibling relationships the way other people enjoy writing romance - maybe because I have so many siblings of my own and they're all such important relationships in my life! Thanks to everyone for sticking with it, and we're almost done now. (And yes, Patty - you always do look out for Don. I hope he appreciates it!)_

Chapter 16

_Man of Inaction_

_Breathe. Breathe. You're doing good. Breathe. Didn't I see this in one of those baby delivery films once…?_ He folded his arms over his knees and rested his forehead on them. _Yeah. Good. In just a second, you'll get up and finish. Try not to think about the fact that you're out of breath going __**down**__ the stairs – feeling stupid doesn't help anything_.

In fact, the whole secret of getting through this thing seemed to be keeping his head down and not thinking too much. Not that he was logging a whole lot of awake hours to think in anyway. At this rate, he wouldn't even be awake enough for desk work in another week.

He felt someone settle on the step next to him, but didn't bother to open his eyes, trying instead for identification via approximate displacement of space, respiration rate, after shave…_Dad_. "Hey…" he breathed.

"Hey. Need a hand?"

He shook his head without lifting it.

"Where are you headed?"

"Field trip. Downstairs."

"Ah."

"I'll – get there. Just taking a pit stop."

"I see. Four walls closing in?"

He snorted. They both knew his eyes were shut most of the time anyway. "ESPN. Can't take it any more. Every time I open my eyes, day or night, there's some rerun of _Little House on the Prairie_ on. What scares me is that I think I'm starting to like it." It was even starting to invade his dreams, though the line between his dreams and the television was blurry these days. The sound and light from the TV set underlined everything, a steady rhythm that bled into his sleep with no beginning and no ending.

He heard his father clear his throat, no doubt trying to suppress the smile that lingered in his voice anyway. "You could try not leaving it on a channel that plays _Little House on the Prairie_," he suggested amiably.

Don lifted his head at that. "I _do_. Somehow it mysteriously gets changed. Every time. Not that I think that's really a mystery." His hand went automatically to his robe pocket to check for the remote, resting where, he reflected wistfully, his gun used to. _Pointless anyway._ No doubt Charlie knew some science magic to override a remote.

"Oh." Alan didn't even try to suppress the smile this time. "Maybe you should turn it off. I'm not sure it's healthy to have it on so much anyway."

"I'm afraid Charlie will read me another bedtime story."

"Ah. And – what was today's topic?"

"I don't know. And I don't want to find out. I think he's secretly using me as a guinea pig for his Cognitive Emergence thing. Testing the boundaries of sanity or something."

"Oh…now…I'm sure he wouldn't use you as a guinea pig…" But Alan didn't sound sure. Testing the boundaries of knowledge was almost sacred to Charlie and didn't allow for many limits.

"Don't be." Don used the railing to teeter carefully to his feet. "It's that whole - math thing." He tightened the belt of his robe. It was one of his father's, so it was a little long, and a little big all over, requiring some gathering in. He touched his left pocket this time, where the cheratussin bottle was tucked and where, he thought dismally, his cell phone used to sit. _Reduced from man of action to man of extreme inaction overnight. _Okay, it hadn't exactly been overnight, but it felt like one, long, interminable night, interrupted intermittently by slightly longer periods of wakefulness. He'd been awake for two hours straight so far today. If he could make it to three, it would be a record.

He kept his grip on the rail and started downward, pretended not to notice his father's reflexive grab for his elbow, quickly retracted.

_Good choice, Dad. I'm not an invalid. Okay, I am, but it'd be nice if I didn't have to feel like one. _

_Last step. Maybe another pit stop? Not a bad idea. _He kept a hand tight against the wall for support as he eased himself down on the last step. He noticed his paternal shadow followed suit, so he fought the urge to press his hand over his racing heart.

"I'm just taking my time. You don't have to - you know."

"I know. I guess I just feel like it. Haven't seen you upright in a while."

"Yeah, yeah…don't rub it in." He reached for the rail again. _Rest times are getting shorter. That's a good sign._

"So – what did Charlotte have to say about your new x-ray?"

"She didn't tell you?" Don kept one hand on the wall until he ran out of wall to hold onto, then hesitated. The couch looked good, but the reclining chair was closer_. Chair it is, then._

"No, she said it was between doctor and patient, now that you're more cognizant."

"Yeah?" _Well, that was something anyway. Almost a grownup again_. "She said everything looks pretty good. Lungs pretty clear. Just…" He dropped into the chair abruptly, so hard that the back reclined suddenly and the foot rest swung up.

Okay - a little clumsy, but it got him where he wanted.

His father made himself comfortable in the chair opposite. "Just…?"

"Oh, just…" He reached for the downstairs television remote on the nearby table. "…that it will be a little while until I feel like myself again. I'll be stuck at a desk for a while."

"I see. She give you any idea how long?"

Don was silent. A lot of things were better – the lollipop thermometer was consistently showing yellow instead of red, and even though it had yet to make its way to green, he hoped that it would any day now.

"That bad, hm?"

He looked up, wrinkling his forehead, as his father correctly interpreted his silence. "Six to eight weeks," he admitted reluctantly. "That doesn't seem possible, does it?"

He saw Alan hastily cover his mouth with his hand. "Why don't you tell me?"

Don sighed, then made a face at the inevitable cough that followed. "Look. I'll be the first to admit that I don't feel that great, but I really thought after a week…" He stopped and reached for his Kleenex, now resting where he used to keep his cuffs. "..that I'd be – y'know – a lot more myself than this. Six to eight weeks…I mean, that's two months."

"Charlie would be impressed with your math."

Don gave him a look. "Hilarious."

Alan smiled. "You know what they say about slow but steady."

"That it drives you crazy?"

"That sometimes it's the only way to get there."

"Yeah." He fingered the remote. "I just – I mean, my body's the one thing I've always been able to count on, you know? I guess I feel kind of…disoriented. Betrayed."

This time Alan was silent, then, "What if I get us both something to drink? The cranberry juice seems to be staying down all right."

Don nodded and watched him leave the room before turning his attention to the television. _Let's see…here we go, hockey_…he put down the remote to watch. The movement and noise and steady voiceover of sports had always been almost meditative for him, a Zen place, even when he couldn't actually find the focus to concentrate on the game. So he was surprised to discover that the speed and yelling and crashing and excited commentary were wearing on him, and after a second he hit the mute button and substituted the closed captions.

_Okay, this was bad. Illness was one thing. But it shouldn't turn you into somebody else, should it? _He fixed his eyes on the screen, tried to pick up on the action.

I will not go to sleep, he told himself firmly. I will _NOT_. Still, he jumped a little when a frosty glass thudded on the coaster next to him.

"So, what's the score?"

"I haven't caught it yet." Yeah, that's good, he mocked himself. It's not like they flash it on the screen every other second or anything.

"You don't want the sound?" The casual tone sounded a little more studied this time.

"Naw - I - thought I'd check and see if there was baseball anywhere." _Something a little quieter. Kind of early in the season for that, though._ He tried to pretend that he didn't notice his father trying to pretend that he wasn't studying him.

"The sum of your parts is more than the physical, you know," Alan said at last. "Just as the sum of Charlie's parts is more than the cerebral."

"Yeah, I know." _I guess. I just wasn't sure anybody else did_.

"So maybe while you're down for the count and can't do anything else anyway, you might want to try exploring some of those other parts of yourself."

He gnawed at his lower lip._ Okay. So maybe I'm not so sure about that as I thought. _He surfed a little longer, paused with his thumb on the button. Something was different, but he couldn't quite…

He noticed the rich golden light pouring through the windows, warming the floorboards. _Hey! _"It stopped raining."

"Two days ago."

He stared at the window, then turned off the television and lowered the footrest.

"You going somewhere?"

Don nodded vaguely, rising slowly.

"Do I get a hint as to where?"

_No clue, Dad_. Don shrugged. "Soon as I have one."

"Do you need a hand?"

"Naw…I'm just…" he shrugged again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father shake his head.

"You've been saying that for as long as I can remember. Some day I'll figure out when it's true and when it isn't. Take your juice!"

He picked up the glass and took a swallow, reaching for the wall with his other hand. He made his way through the dining room, pausing only briefly to lean against the piano, kept going through the swinging kitchen door. It was a longish stroll for him.

He wasn't entirely surprised to find his journey stopping with the garage. He hesitated for a minute, pulling his robe more tightly around him, thinking his opportunity to enter undiscovered would be limited - coughing was bound to give him away eventually. But he entered anyway.

He saw Charlie had his back to him, headphones on, and allowed himself to cough. He had no idea what he expected coming here, but after a minute he got comfortable on the battered sofa and closed his eyes. The tap tap of chalk made a soothing sound. Another forty-five minutes and he would be awake for three hours straight. Maybe trying to figure out Charlie's math would keep him up. He slit his eyes enough to watch the chalk swirls fill the board, Charlie's head moving in time to the muted sounds bleeding from the headphones. The glass of juice felt cool between his curved palms.

_The sum of his parts._ He wondered if that was the kind of sum Charlie's math could calculate. Right now, he wasn't even sure what the components would be: one agent minus one baseball player plus a dozen failed relationships, divided by a hundred conflicting emotions? The tap tap of chalk was hypnotic and he stretched his legs out in front of him. Or maybe it was something more like D equals Eppes homestead squared. He smiled faintly. _That thermometer better start showing green soon, Eppes – because you are losing it._

"Are you supposed to be up?"

He was surprised to find his eyes had closed, opened them abruptly. _Okay, okay – that wasn't the same as sleeping – doesn't count_. "Can't stay in bed forever. I needed a change of scene."

"What did you expect to find out here?"

_The question of the hour, evidently_. "A whole lot of chalk dust."

Charlie turned back to the chalkboard, his headphones discarded. "Well, since you're here…I've been doing a little research. Found a lot of different theories on things that can speed recovery from pneumonia. There was this one – _really_ interesting - wait – let me get my laptop - "

Don slid a little further down on his spine, watching the chalk dust dance in a thin and watery shaft of sunlight. _Nice. It was nice to see the sun again But then, it always came back, eventually, if you waited long enough. _He grinned.Which sounded suspiciously like what his dad had said.

Thirty minutes more, and he'd be awake for three hours straight. Of course, with Charlie starting in on post pneumonia recovery theories, there was a good chance he wouldn't make it…he yawned.

_What the hell. Beat the heck out of __**Little House on the Prairie.**_

_TBC_


End file.
